Raven's Cry
by Calico
Summary: A string of gruesome attacks, and the victims have one thing in common - Bruce Wayne. New ending added
1. 1

Title:  "Raven's Cry"

Author:  Calico calico321@yahoo.com

Rating: R – for language and violence involving rape

Summary:  Batman investigates a horrible crime that is somehow connected to Bruce Wayne's love life.

            "Where is that lovely date of yours, Bruce?" Emma Stearns asked with a sip of champagne.

            "Well, uh, I don't know," he replied vaguely as he looked about the large ballroom.  His own glass dangled loosely from his fingertips where it had been since he'd picked it up twenty minutes before.  In a little while he would replace it with a fresh one, laughing as he did so to make a pretense of inebriation.  He blinked as he lazily regarded the faces around him, feeling slightly ill at ease.  Rebecca had been gone for over an hour. 

            Normally he wouldn't be bothered so much by a date's disappearance, but things with Rebecca had been a little different than most of his dates.  She was a typical socialite, yes, but she had a remarkable range of topics that she could discuss, surprisingly most of which not involving herself, and he'd found he could actually enjoy conversing with her.  Money and good breeding had given her an air of elegance, but she was also genuinely pretty, with strawberry-blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a fresh, innocent smile.  With her easy-going demeanor, she did not hassle him if he failed to call her following any of their outings, and she would not rake him over the coals should he mysteriously disappear with only the vaguest of excuses.  Most importantly she hadn't tried to immediately wrangle him into bed like most debutantes, looking to get a trophy night out of the famed billionaire bachelor.  On the contrary, she seemed more than satisfied with the goodbye kisses in his car, though they were becoming more and more passionate.  She had been such an easy choice in the season's round of parties that they had become the talk of the town, many gossip columnists speculating on when he would pop the question.  And that was the problem.  He feared she too was speculating.

            She really was such a nice girl, it was a shame he was going to have to break up with her this evening.  He had considered a long-term romance with her, perhaps even an engagement, that would help maintain his social cover, but that would pose its own set of difficulties.  He kept women at an arm's length for a specific reason, and even as understanding as she was now, he didn't think it would take very long at all for her curiosity to get the better of her.  It was far too dangerous a game to play.  And then there was the emotional aspect.  It wasn't fair to lead her on knowing he could never reciprocate.  Even though he was attracted to her, even though he enjoyed spending time with her, love was never an option.

            Bruce plucked a canapé off the tray of a passing waiter and looked around once again for her face.  "You know Bruce," Emma said from his right.  "You two make such an adorable couple.  I'm surprised it took you this long to start seeing each other."

            He gave her his goofy, lop-sided grin.  "Well you know how these things are Emma.  You pass the same people everyday without even noticing them, and then voila!  It's like you're seeing them for the first time."  He waved his hand extravagantly.

            Emma threw her head back and laughed.  And that had been the case.  The Raven's had actually been friends of his family for years, though Rebecca had been just a baby when his parents were murdered.  Then he'd gone off on his personal quest and returned to start his lives, both public and private.  She had been sent off to Switzerland for finishing school in her late teens, preferring to stay in Europe after graduating to the noise and congestion of Gotham.  But she still came back from time to time and one evening earlier in the year, at a party thrown by Missy Van Kleet, she'd walked up to him with her hand held out.  "Rebecca Raven," she'd boldly introduced herself, blushing ever so slightly.

            His escort for that event had thrown an entire plate of goose liver pâté at him when she found them talking out on the terrace catching up on old family gossip.  Rebecca had just laughed and helped him brush the meaty spread off his suit jacket.  He had found her to be a truly nice person who didn't have a mean word to say about anyone, unlike the catty comments he was used to hearing from the women in his circle.  He'd developed an immediate rapport with her and they had started dating soon after.  Lunches at the country club, golfing with her parents while they were in the country, and all the Gotham social parties you could want.  She really was perfect for Bruce Wayne, and he sighed realizing he was going to have to start afresh with a new set of bimbos and their constant narcissistic chatter.

            He glanced impatiently at his watch again, about to go look for her, when a hand gripped his elbow.  He turned to see the headwaiter standing there with a paled, pinched expression.  "Mr. Wayne," he said tightly.  "If I may see you outside for a moment?"

            "What's the matter?" he said immediately on edge.

            "Please Mr. Wayne, if you'll come with me.  There has been an…incident."

            "Incident?  What kind of…Does this have something to do with Rebecca?"

            There was a small nod and the man pulled on his arm.  "This way, Sir."

            Bruce paced in front of the hospital door, fists clenched, his black tie undone and hanging down with the top two buttons of his shirt unclasped.  His hair stood up on end from running his hands through it constantly.  His teeth ground together and he wanted to punch something, anything.

            Hospital staff, clad in colorful scrubs, rushed by him, going about the mundane business of keeping people healthy.  Their crepe-soled shoes squeaked in their wake, which is why he knew the clicking footsteps behind him did not belong to a doctor or nurse.  A slight off-step was caused by a limp he probably didn't even realize he had.  Then there was the smell of the pipe tobacco he'd been trying unsuccessfully to quit for years.  "Commissioner Gordon," Bruce commented before even turning to acknowledge the policeman's arrival.

            Jim Gordon's face showed an understandable surprise.  "Mr. Wayne, how did you know…?"

            "I saw your reflection in the glass," he said and motioned to a window he hadn't been anywhere near.

            "Oh."  Gordon squared his shoulders and looked Bruce directly in the eye.  "I'm so sorry about this.  We're doing everything possible to keep it quiet."

            "But you're going to find out who did this right?" Bruce pleaded.

            "Definitely.  I promise you I'll have every available man on this."  Bruce nodded and looked back towards her door.  The doctor said she was still unconscious.  He wouldn't be able to see her until she woke up.  "Uh, Mr. Wayne, I need to show you something, something that may help us in figuring out who did this."

            Bruce frowned, but nodded.  Gordon reached into his coat and pulled out a small clear, plastic evidence bag.  Inside was a piece of paper with several scrawled words.  He took the bag and read what was on the note.

            _How does Wayne like his whore now?_

            He blinked at it almost incoherently, blood pounding in his ears.  "Where did you get this?" he managed to get out.  His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth.

            "It was found next to her body.  I'm sorry to have to do this to you."

            "No, no it's fine," he lied.   "The note is meant for me," he stated.

            "It appears so," the older man said sadly.  "Does it mean anything to you?"

            Bruce raised an eyebrow.  "Doesn't ring a bell, Commissioner."

            Gordon nodded hastily and shoved the bag back into his jacket.  They stood in silence for a while longer, until the door opened and a young female doctor peaked out.  "Mr. Wayne?" she asked quietly.  "She's woken up.  You can come in for a moment.  Just try not to upset her, okay?"

            He was at the door in two strides, Gordon immediately behind him.  The room was darkened, with only a soft reading lamp on in the corner.  Bruce rushed to the bedside.  She turned her head towards him and reached out a hand that he grasped.  "Bruce?  What happened?  What's going on?"

            "It's going to be okay, Becky," he soothed.  "What do you remember?"

            She reached up and gingerly touched her face, which was a swollen patchwork quilt of bruises and cuts.  A splint was taped across the bridge of her broken nose.  He already knew that several teeth were cracked or missing.

            He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb as she closed her eyes and shifted uncomfortably.  "I don't know.  I remember getting ready for the party and waiting for you, but after that it all becomes fuzzy.  Were we in a car accident?"

            He shook his head and glanced up at the doctor, who nodded briefly.  "Becky we were at the party.  Someone found you in a back bedroom.  You had been," he paused and took a deep breath.  "You had been attacked.  And, and…"  He shut his eyes, unable to tell her the worst of it.

            "Bruce," she cried in alarm.  "What are you trying to say?"

            "I'm sorry Becky.  You were raped."

            "No," she wept and turned away from him, sobbing.  "No, no, no," she repeated over and over.  

            "I'm sorry," he repeated.  "I've called your parents.  They'll be here in the morning."

            She turned back to him, eyes wide and blazing.  "You're lying!" she spat.

            Bruce shook his head sadly, willing away her pain, wanting to do anything to turn the clock back.  If he'd only gone to look for her, maybe he could have prevented this.

            "Why are you lying to me?" she cried even harder.

            "I'm not, Becky.  You know that."

            "Yes you are!  Why are you doing this to me…?"  Then she gasped sharply and stared at the ceiling in shock and horror.  "Oh my god," she moaned.

            "Becky?"

            She clenched her eyes together and started to sob even harder.  "Oh god.  I remember.  'Why are you doing this to me?'  That's what I asked him, when, when, when…" her words fell off into hiccups.  Gently he brushed back her hair.

            "It's okay," he whispered to her.

            Eventually the sobs died down.  "Oh Bruce."  She looked at him with sad eyes.  "I'm so sorry."

            "You have nothing to be sorry about," he said and tried his best to smile at her.  Then he glanced up and remembered Gordon was still in here.  "Becky, the police would like to ask you some questions.  Can you handle that?"

            "I suppose."  She pulled herself up on the bed.

            "Miss Raven," Gordon nodded politely to her.  "Do you remember what he looked like?"

            She shook her head.  "It was dark.  He, ah, came up behind me when I came out of the restroom.  He picked me up and carried me into the room, kicking the door shut behind us, then threw me down on the bed.  The lights were completely off and the drapes drawn.  I couldn't see a thing."

            "Did he say anything to you?"

            She paused and then nodded.  "A lot.  He said a lot of really horrible things."  She sighed and turned away.  "He said I was like all the others, who'd been bought by his power and money.  I was just a…just a…whore who'd sold out to the highest bidder."  She licked her lips, wincing.  "He was so…cold, so awful."

            The two men shared an uncomfortable glance.  "Is there anything else you can remember?  Anything that could help us identify him?"

            "I don't know," she answered tiredly.

            "I think she's had enough for one evening, gentlemen," the doctor reproached from behind.

            "Alright.  You sleep.  I'll be by tomorrow to see you," Bruce told her.

            "Please don't."

            He was taken aback.  "Becky…"

            "I just need to be alone right now, Bruce.  I'm sorry."

            "Very well.  I'll respect your wishes.  But if you need anything, don't hesitate to call me."

            She nodded, but continued to keep her face away from him.  After one last squeeze of her hand he moved to join Gordon at the door.  He reached for the handle when she called out, "I bit him."

            "Excuse me?" Gordon asked.

            "He covered my mouth with his hand.  I bit it.  Hard.  That's when he punched me in the nose.  Does that help?"

            "It might.  Try to get some sleep, Miss Raven.  I'll have a female officer visit you tomorrow.  Maybe you'll be able to speak with her after you've rested."  She nodded and they filed out the door.

            The doctor looked at Bruce apologetically.  "Try not to take it personally, Mr. Wayne.  Rape victims often push away those closest to them.  I'm sure she'll come around soon."

            "Thank you, Doctor," he answered before she walked away.

            "I'll keep in touch, Bruce," Gordon said.  "We'll get to the bottom of this.  You have my word."

            "I know, Commissioner.  I know."  Silently they rode the elevator to the lobby together and parted ways.  Jim Gordon didn't know it, but they would be seeing each other again very soon.


	2. 2

            Black cape flapping behind on the wind currents, Batman swung easily onto the ledge.  The window was never locked, and even if it were, it wouldn't matter.  Besides, who in their right mind would try to break into Gotham City Police Headquarters?

            Idly he retracted the line as he waited for Gordon to finish a telephone conversation.  

            "There's definitely a connection to Wayne.  I'm going to have to have a serious conversation with him.  Yes sir, I promise I will be tactful.  I'll keep you posted.  Goodnight."

            As soon as the call was terminated, Batman slipped through the window and silently eased out of the shadow with a practiced economy of movement that made it appear as if he were a night wraith, instead of a normal man.  The costume was designed to instill a superstitious fear, but it was the raw power beneath it, the threats left unspoken, the rock-solid resolve, that made him truly terrifying to behold.

            James Gordon had worked with the vigilante for years, trusted him in a way he had no other, but there was always that one moment when he looked up to see the cowled head peering down on him that he felt like he had been earmarked by Death herself.

            "Batman," he said, trying to cover the disquiet the unannounced appearance always caused him.  "I'm glad you're here, I was going to call you in on this."  There was only a nod in response, so Gordon passed the file across the desk to his unofficial partner.  "A woman was brutally beaten and raped tonight at one of those uptown parties, and apparently she wasn't just a random victim."

            A gloved hand flipped purposely through the evidence and reports already gathered.  It paused at the plastic bag with the grim, if mocking, question.  Gordon saw the interest.  "Bruce Wayne.  You know, president of Wayne Enterprises."

            "I know," was the rumbled reply.

            Gordon sighed.  "The victim is his current girlfriend, 26-year-old Rebecca Raven, as in Raven Airlines.  Wayne's a nice enough guy, though he does seem to go through women rather quickly.  Odds are he stepped on some toes at one time or another.  Probably a jealous former boyfriend."

            "Perhaps."   He moved on to several photographs cataloguing the girl's injuries, pictures that would later be used by the District Attorney if the rapist were ever brought to trial, photos that showed a beautiful face distorted into a visage of pain.  Gordon wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a tensing of the other man's back as he shuffled through them.

            "There's a lot of hatred there," he commented.  "Hatred for her, Wayne,…"

            "Whoever jilted him," Batman finished.

            Gordon nodded, pleased they were on the same wavelength.  "I've already instructed one of my officers to go back through unsolved cases of sexual assault.  This may not be the first time he's struck out."

            "But it's the first time he's left a calling card and hit close to home."

            The tired and overworked commissioner nodded again.  "It's a bold move.  Maybe he's looking to get caught, but more than likely he's trying to make Wayne sweat.  I don't know.  How can you understand the mind of someone who could do anything like this?  I have to talk to the Ravens after they get in tomorrow.  They were skiing in the Alps.  I can't imagine anyone hurting my child like this," he said sadly thinking about his own redheaded daughter, but she already had been hurt.  With a twinge of shame he was secretly grateful she had been spared this ultimate violation.

            "No DNA evidence recovered?" Batman asked, pulling him out of his reverie.

            "No.  At least he believed in safe sex.  Hairs and trace fibers have been sent to forensics for analysis.  Though she did say she bit him, if there was any blood it may have splattered on the sheets along with hers, we may pick up something there.  Hopefully if she did bite him hard enough, he required stitches.  I've got units combing the surrounding hospitals and clinics for any type of bite wounds.  And there was one smudged fingerprint on the note.  Other than that he was lucky.  We're just hoping for some witnesses."

            The cover was firmly closed on the case file.  "You didn't interview the party guests after she was found."

            "No.  We weren't exactly sure what we were up against at the time.  Couldn't reasonably detain them."

            "And all the better to keep the scandal quiet."

            Gordon frowned.  "Police procedure was followed."  He reached up and massaged the bridge of his nose, feeling he'd been somehow been upbraided by the Dark Knight in those few words of quiet admonishment.  It was a difficult situation for him to be in, walking a tightrope between maintaining the girl's privacy and hunting down the animal who'd hurt her, not to mention a very politically charged problem involving wealthy and influential families.  The mayor had already called him.  Twice.  "We'll go back and talk to them one by one over the next few days."

            "It might be too late by then."

            The file was slid back across the desk quickly.  Gordon dropped his palm on it to keep it from going over the edge.  "I don't think so…" but when he looked up, there was nothing standing in front of him, no night wraith, no agent of Death, no man hiding a wounded soul behind a mask.  

            He entered the hospital like he did every other situation – purposefully, quietly, and unseen.  The reading lamp was still on in her room, casting a protective glow around her bed in a three-foot radius, leaving the surrounding area in darkness.  This camouflage hid him as he glided over the windowsill and then stood motionless to watch her prone form, breathing gently, if audibly, beneath the thin sheet.  Assuming she was fast asleep he stepped forward into the light circle to get a closer look.  But he wasn't afforded this quiet observation opportunity.  Her eyes flew open and she sat up, giving a small startled gasp.

            "Don't be afraid," he assured, raising both hands into her view.

            She settled back into the pillow easily enough.  "I stopped being afraid of the Boogie Man a long time ago."  Her normally silky voice had gained a rasp and her words were only partially formed as she spoke around the broken teeth and swollen mouth.  She regarded him, and then declared, "I know who you are."  Somehow he remained stoic, until she explained, "I've read about The Batman.  'Gotham's Protector' and all that.  Are you here to protect me?"  He could detect no trace of irony in her voice, but it didn't stop the jolt of emotion that ran through him. 

            "I want to find out who did this to you."  He thought about her immediate fearlessness.  "How can you be sure I'm not him?"

            "You're too much of a gentleman?"  She plucked at the sheet as her attempt at humor died around them, then reached over to the bedside table and picked up a Styrofoam cup filled with ice water and gently laid the straw between her cracked, red lips.  He noticed the skin around her eyes had grown even more puffy and bruised as her body slowly reacted to the recent trauma.  Finished taking the small drink, she replaced the cup and refocused on him.  "You're just a little taller than my boyfriend.  The, uh, guy, when he grabbed me, he sort of picked me up – you know, one hand on my mouth and an arm around my waist, pulling me off my feet from behind.  I could feel his breath on my cheek so I know we were about even, but my toes dragged on the carpet.  I think he'd only come to your chin."  He nodded and she breathed deeply, perhaps regaining strength.  "You know, I think this guy really has it out for Bruce," she said looking off in the other direction.

            He frowned.  "Did he mention him?  By name?"

            She nodded and he feared she would offer no more information, but then she faced him fully.  "He said some pretty filthy things to me, like how could I be turned on by such a dimwit, I must get off on all that Wayne money or Wayne thinks he can buy anything, but he's not a real man, etc, etc, etc."  She sighed unhappily.  "He thinks I'm mad at him now, but I just didn't want to hurt him, and I know he'd be devastated if he knew.  He's such a great guy.  That man called me Bruce's whore, and you know what's really funny about the whole thing, and I mean funny ha-ha?  I was still a virgin."  She smiled sheepishly at him, or at least it would have been a sheepish smile if she could have moved her lips easily.  "No one knows, not even Bruce, but he was always so polite it never came up.  It's not like it was this prudish, old-fashioned morality thing, I was just waiting for the right time, and I really thought the right time was almost here."  The apparent lightheartedness of her words was belied by the single tear that ran down her cheek.  She reached up and plucked it off, almost confused to find it there.

            Batman lowered his eyes, feeling the horror of his deception in a way he hadn't since first donning the cape and cowl.  As he did so he saw that the hospital gown she wore had dropped down on the right side, revealing the slope of her breast, where he noticed the dark discoloration contrasted against her pale skin.  The ugly bruise only peaked above the hem, and it was impossible to determine the entire size of it.  She reached down and slipped the garment back into place.  "He had quite the death grip on me," she explained plainly.  "I'm sorry to embarrass you with my rambling, but somehow you're easier to talk to.  Must be the anonymity of the mask, or maybe the black clothes, like confessing to a priest, not that I'm even Catholic."  She coughed in a manner that could have been considered a laugh.

            He wanted to touch her, hold her hand, comfort her in some manner, but in this guise that just wasn't possible.  "I'll find him," he told her firmly instead.  "He won't go unpunished."

            "That's sweet," she said sincerely.  "I don't know why I deserve such attention, unless of course it's because my father owns the biggest airline based out of Gotham?"

            "It has nothing to do with money."

            "In my world it has everything to do with money."  She tried smiling again, but the expression turned into a grimace of pain and she gently laid a palm against her cheek.  "I think I'm overdue for a pain pill.  I'm going to have to call a nurse in a minute.  Not that I'm not enjoying our little chat, but you may not want to be here when she comes."

            He agreed, but her last comment had triggered something and he wanted to ask her one more thing.  "Becky," he started without thinking, stopping as she turned to him with a quizzical look.

            "No one ever calls me that, except for Bruce.  It's always just Rebecca."

            "I apologize.  It's a common nickname," he said trying to cover his blunder.  "The man who attacked you, I want you to think very carefully:  how he smelled, the feel of his clothes, the way he spoke, do you think he was affluent, part of your social circle?"

            She closed her eyes, taking his question with all due seriousness.  "Well," she began slowly.  "Aside from the vulgarities, I think he was more or less educated, not a lot of grammatical errors.  The smell?  Hmm.  Cologne, possibly, or aftershave, not cheap, but not the expensive stuff either."  Her brow furrowed and she whimpered ever so slightly as she tried to recreate attack in her head.  "I think he was wearing a tux or some other kind of suit, but it wasn't quality, maybe a rental.  It had that slick feeling, like it had been dry-cleaned too many times."  She opened her eyes and several more tears leaked out.  "Is that helpful?" she asked hoarsely.

            "Yes," he said softly.  "You've been very brave."

            "I don't know about that."  She frowned.  "After I bit him, he hit me.  I've never been hit before.  I must have blacked out for a moment, because when I came to, he was…" she shuddered.  "I asked him why he was doing this to me.  He says I'm a faithless bitch, a dirty whore, selling out to the highest bidder.  I just cried.  I just lay there and cried.  I didn't scream or call out for help, I just cried.  And when he was done he said he'd make sure I couldn't cash in on my face anymore, that I'd spend the rest of my life alone, like I deserved.  That's when he really got mean.  I tried to get away, but it was so dark and wherever I went he was right there and I couldn't defend myself, I couldn't stop him."  Whatever façade of control she had been maintaining slipped away and she started sobbing uncontrollably.  This time he didn't resist the urge and placed his hand on her head.  "How could I let this happen?  How could I just let it _happen_?" she cried loudly.

            "It's not your fault," he tried to console her.  "You didn't let anything happen."

            Suddenly she reached up and gripped the edge of his cape.  "You said you'd find him?  When you do, hurt him.  Hurt him like he hurt me.  Please?"

            "He'll be dealt with," he managed to say while looking down into her haunted, pained eyes.  Outside he heard footsteps and voices, and knowing it was time to make his exit eased out of her grasp, back stepping into the shadows as a handful of orderlies and nurses paraded in circling her bed in concern.

            "Miss Raven, are you okay?" one of the staff asked.

            "It was just a dream," he heard her respond weakly.  He slipped out the window and was sailing though the air before they could even detect the incoming draft.


	3. 3

            "Oracle, secure the line."

            "Go ahead, Boss," Barbara Gordon responded.

            "There's a new case in the GCPD database.  Assault of a woman, Caucasian, 26 years old…"

            Barbara cleared her throat.  "We know about Rebecca," she said quietly.

            There was a long pause, and then, "Download everything they've got.  There's a fingerprint.  Run it through and find out who it belongs to."

            "The print is smudged, Bruce.  It's only good as a comparison if a suspect is brought in," she reminded him having already accessed the information over an hour ago.

            "I've put enough money into that system of yours, give me some results."

            She blew a breath out and smoothed her hands against her jeans.  "Bruce," she started, "I know you're upset…"

            "I am not upset."  It sounded as if the words had been put through a meat grinder.

            "Well maybe you should be."  Silence.  "You've dated the woman for the past six weeks.  I realize you may feel responsible for what happened, but perhaps it would be better if you weren't personally involved in the investigation."

            "Responsible?"

            Barb had known the man long enough to develop an ear for his nuances, he wasn't playing dumb.  She sighed.  "It happened right under your nose.  And the perp apparently has a beef against you."  She rubbed her forehead as the static of the line greeted her.  "You must care for her a lot."

            "I was going to break it off tonight," he replied tersely.

            "What?  Why?" she asked.  "I thought…"

            "It was convenient.  Too convenient.  I had gotten lazy.  Now she's paid for it."

            Barbara knew Bruce Wayne was anything but lazy.  Maybe he was buying his own hype.  "That's not true.  Don't use this as another excuse to beat yourself up."

            "Just get me an ID on this guy.  Batman out."  The line was dead.  Barbara closed her eyes.  She longed for a deranged psychopath holding a building of hostages or an invasion of space aliens, something easy.

            Batman finally arrived back in the cave at a quarter past six, just as the sun was rising over Gotham City.  Alfred met him with a pot of soothing tea in the hopes that Master Bruce would try to get a few hours sleep.  He of course waved the tea away and demanded coffee.  Very strong coffee.  The aging butler obliged reluctantly, and after he'd left, Bruce stripped out of the suit and entered the cave's shower, taking longer than usual under the brutally hot water.  He closed his eyes and tried not to see Rebecca's battered face.

            After showering he was toweling off when the intercom buzzed.  "Master Bruce, can you please come down here.  There are some gentlemen here to see you, from the police."

            Bruce checked his watch.  It wasn't even seven yet.  He thumbed the intercom and stifled a yawn.  "Sure Alfred, I'll be right down."  He put on a robe and made sure his hair was suitably tousled, then he took the elevator to the butler's pantry in the kitchen.  Taking a service stairway to the upper floors he made his way over to the grand staircase and began his descent, rubbing his eyes sleepily.  "Hey Alfred, where's that coffee?" he asked as he reached the bottom.

            "Right away, sir.  Can I bring you gentlemen anything?" the ever-polite servant offered the two men standing in the foyer.  One of them was Commissioner Gordon.  The other introduced himself to Bruce as Detective Grant Penway.  Both men declined hospitality.  Alfred retreated with a stealthness to rival Batman's. 

            "Commissioner," Bruce greeted the older man and then shook hands with Penway.  "It is rather early for a visit isn't it?  Unless something's come up with Rebecca?" he asked with a knot in his stomach.

            "She's fine," Gordon responded.

            "Can I ask where you were between 2 and 4 this morning, Mr. Wayne?" Penway asked severely.

            "I'm sorry," he sputtered.  "Why do you need to know that?"

            Gordon sighed.  "There was a murder."  With a nod to Penway, the detective took a picture out of his coat and showed it to Bruce.  "You recognize her?"  Bruce only nodded.  The glossy headshot showed a woman of about 23 with dark brown hair, crystal clear blue eyes, and a fashion model smile, fitting for the most sought-after cover girl in Gotham.  He had dated Brandy Valentine exactly three times last year.  He remembered well her love of chocolate-covered strawberries though she hated to eat them because they would ruin her figure, the snort she sometimes did when she laughed too hard, and the night she placed her hand on his leg and offered the most exquisite proposition he'd ever heard.  He'd given her a story about a little 'problem' he had and elicited her promise that they keep it just between them.  In return she was given liberty to expound on their liaison with whatever embellishments she chose.

            His voice caught in his throat when he asked, "Was there a note?"

            The commissioner nodded and took out a plastic bag, just like the one in the hospital from the night before.  Bruce's hand trembled ever so slightly as he reached out for it, and he realized he wasn't acting.

            _Wayne uses them up and tosses them away like garbage.  Someone has to take out the trash._

            He cleared his throat as he handed the note back to Gordon.  "How?" he managed.

            Penway stepped forward.  "Strangled in her bed.  Coroner figures between 2 and 4.  Her personal trainer found her about an hour ago."

            "Was she raped?" Bruce forced himself to ask

            "No," Penway responded slowly.  "There was evidence of consensual sex though.  We believe she went to a club last night and may have brought someone home with her.  Now if you could just tell us where you were?" he said with an inclination of his head.

            "Why Master Bruce was here in bed of course," Alfred announced brightly as he handed a delicate cup and saucer to Wayne.

            "And you know this how?"

            "After he came home last evening he was rather distraught over Miss Raven.  I put him immediately to bed with some warm milk and brandy.  I retired soon after."

            "How can you be sure he was there all night?" Penway asked.

            "The security system," Alfred replied immediately.  "There is no way to bypass it without the proper code, which would be recorded each time it is entered."

            "We'll be needing a copy of last night's log," Penway said.

            "Of course."

            "And Mr. Wayne, we'll need a list of any women you've dated or otherwise have been romantically linked in the past say three years.  Think you can do that?"

            "Sure, but why?" he asked densely, even though he'd already begun cataloguing them downstairs.

            "Well," Penway responded slowly as if Bruce were the biggest dunce he'd ever seen, "any or all of them are potential victims, not to mention one of them may be the link to this guy.  Any jealous boyfriends or husbands you are aware of?"

            "No, detective."

            "Even if you didn't know about them at the time, anyone with an axe to grind?"

            "No," he said firmly.

            "Thank you, Mr. Wayne," Gordon said finally, stepping between the two men and offering his hand.

            "No problem, Commissioner.  I'll fax that list over to your office this afternoon."

            "Very good.  Now if you'll excuse us, I have to be at the airport in less than forty minutes to meet the Ravens."


	4. 4

            Dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, Bruce sat in front of the computer, gulping down the fresh coffee that Alfred had handed him.

            "Oracle," he hailed.

            "Go ahead."

            "What have you got so far on the Valentine murder?"

            "According to the preliminary police report, she went to a club on Mulhaven, called the Two Angels, only three blocks from her apartment.  Apparently she's a frequent visitor.  Five eyewitness testimonies so far have her leaving with someone at or around 1:30 a.m.  Five different descriptions of the man – one even says it was a woman.  Best source of information seems to be the bartender, Chance Bartholomew.  He remembers a man buying drinks for her all night.  Described as 5'10" to 6', medium build, wearing a tux, deeply tanned, dark almost black hair, age 23."

            "Approximately?" Bruce asked.

            "No, exactly.  He had to card him before selling alcohol."

            Bruce leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair.  "_He saw his ID?_"

            "That's right."

            "Did he get a name?"

            "Nothing on the report."

            "I think I'll be paying Chance a visit.  Any luck on that print?"

            "I'm running a matrix applying probable variations, but the possibilities are infinite, and it's mostly pulling in garbage."

            "Cross reference with the bartender's description.  He's got to be out there."

            "Sir," Alfred cut in on the intercom, "there's a call on the house line.  Lucas Raven.  Shall I ask him to call back?"

            "No!  I'll take it down here."  Disconnecting from Oracle, he picked up the phone on the computer console.  "Lucas!" he said brightly.  "It's good to hear from you."

            "Bruce," the caller replied evenly.  "We're getting settled into the penthouse.  I'd really like to speak with you.  In person.  Can you come over?  Say, in an hour?"  Although phrased as questions, the CEO of Raven Airlines had perfected the art of interrogatory commands.  Employees soon learned that 'no' was never an option.

            "Of course.  Looking forward to it."

            "Good," Lucas said tersely and disconnected the call.

            The two men stood out on the terrace of the Ravens' enormous penthouse, where Rebecca currently resided and her parents stayed whenever they were in town.  Having been a frequent visitor recently, Bruce knew it very well.  The fifty-foot balcony spanned the western side of the building and offered an amazing sunset view in the evenings.

            Lucas Raven was a large man in both height and girth, whose completely bald head gleamed in the mid afternoon sunlight.  He used his dominating presence to his full advantage with underlings and adversaries alike.  Standing silently with arms crossed, he watched Bruce like an owl would watch a field mouse.

            "Where's Sarah?" Bruce inquired about Lucas' wife.

            "She and the maid are unpacking.  I thought this meeting was best suited to just the two of us."

            Bruce nodded and asked, "How is Rebecca doing?"

            "Wonderfully.  She'll be coming home tomorrow.  Luckily there is only a small hairline fracture of her left cheek that should mend nicely on its own.  The doctors say any surface scarring will be able to be buffed out with minimal effort.  Her dental work will take about a week to complete.  Her nose will require the most repair."

            "I was referring to her spirits," Bruce corrected quietly.

            "How do you _think_ she's doing?" the other man vented.  "Someone tried to disfigure her.  She was degraded and humiliated!"  He paused for a moment to compose himself and looked out onto the city.  "The Commissioner told me about the note and that woman that was killed," he said almost casually.

            "Lucas I can't tell you how sorry I am…"

            "No you can't.  I'll tell you something Bruce, when Rebecca first told us you were starting to date, I was not exactly happy with the idea.  I'm well aware of your escapades.  But Sarah, God love her, thought it was kismet or something.  'Thomas and Martha's little boy with our baby,' she said.  'Isn't it wonderful?'  So I kept my mouth closed and just waited to see.  Rebecca's a smart girl; I've never hidden anything from her.  She is perfectly capable of making her own decisions, and I'd just hoped she could see something in you I couldn't.

            "Son, I knew your father for many years.  We roomed together at Princeton and all that time he was a decent hardworking man.  Wrote to your mother every day, never looked at another woman.  I shudder to think what he'd say about his son's reputation now.  I don't know what's more disappointing: how irresponsible you've become or the fact that you don't care how you hurt those around you."

            Lucas hung his head, shaking it.  "I know it's a little late to close the barn door after the horse has gotten out, but I think it's about time I asked anyway."  He looked directly at Bruce.  "What are your intentions towards my daughter?"

            Bruce was saved from answering as a small silver-haired woman rushed out to greet them.  "Brucie!" she cried.  "It's so good to see you again."  She came forward and threw her arms around him.

            "Sarah," he responded warmly.  "I'm just sorry it has to be under such grim circumstances."

            "Oh, I know," she said sadly and placed a hand to her mouth.  Once composed, she smiled again.  "Did he offer you anything?  Tea?  Something to eat?"

            Bruce shook his head and replied, "No thank you, I'm fine."

            "Sarah, darling," Lucas said, placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her back into the apartment.  "Bruce and I are conducting business, man to man.  We'd really appreciate some privacy."

            "All right, dear," she sighed.  With a final wave to Bruce she disappeared back inside.

            Lucas shook his head and he returned to stand before Bruce.  "I haven't told her about your involvement in this mess.  I think it'd be better for her right now to keep some of her illusions.  Now getting back to what we were discussing before, what are your intentions towards Rebecca?"

            "Lucas, I can honestly say I care about her a great deal, but I am not looking to get married right now.  I'm sorry."

            Lucas Raven sighed and leaned against the terrace rail.  "So am I, son, so am I.  I think you'd better leave now."

            "I'd really like to see Rebecca again, once she gets home."

            "If and when she chooses to see you is her business.  I won't forbid it, nor will I encourage it," was the only answer he got.

            Bruce nodded somberly and let himself out.

            Calling the Two Angels a 'club' was being generous by far.  Little more than a dive with a fresh coat of paint, it offered karaoke Tuesdays and Thursdays, live bands on Wednesdays, and dancing till dawn with DJ Mixmaster on weekends.  Located in an area adjacent to higher end housing, clientele tended to be hip, rich, and young, but that crowd didn't hit in force until well after 10 p.m.

            The sun had barely set leaving the city in a mild but beautiful glow as Batman made his way over to Mulhaven and walked into the establishment.  At this hour a handful of regular patrons sat scattered at various tables or booths gave the Dark Knight mixed looks ranging from fearful apprehension to jocular amusement.  For them the Two Angels was not a social club, but for hardcore drinking and they were putting the quiet time to good use.

            Ignoring the customers, Batman walked straight to the bar where a man of about forty with a gruesome burn scar surrounding his left eye was drying glasses unenthusiastically with a dish towel.  He wore black pants and a red vest and the look of someone who had just lost his best friend.

            "Chance Bartholomew?" Batman asked, surprising the man enough that he almost dropped the glass he was working on.

            "Batman," he said with some surprise, but without the cringe of the chronically guilty.  "Uh, what can I get you?"

            "Information.  About Brandy Valentine."

            Chance's face immediately closed down.  "I've already talked to the cops," he said and resumed his task with far more determination than before.

            "And now you'll talk to me," Batman informed him grimly.  "You said a man was buying her drinks.  What time did he get here?"

            Chance lifted a shoulder.  "I guess I first noticed him around 11:30."

            "And you carded him.  What was his name?"

            "Look," the bartender said tiredly, spreading out his hands, "all I do is make sure they're legal and that they match the picture.  I can't remember everybody's name that comes through here."

            "But you remembered his age and a pretty detailed physical description.  You were paying attention to him.  Why?"  Chance looked away.  "Why?" he asked again, leaning forward.

            "It's always some young, handsome guy," Chance replied softly.  "She puts on a show for them.  Laughing, touching his arm, dancing in that way that's unfit for public.  And he just kept putting the booze in front of her, like she'd need the incentive."  He paused and shook his head wearily.  "She'd been doing too much of that lately," he said almost sorrowfully.

            "Too much of what?  Drinking or going home with strange men?"

            "Both," Chance answered, meeting the vigilante's eyes in challenge.

            "How long has she been like that?"

            "I dunno.  Eight months or so.  You gotta think something happened.  Maybe a magazine wouldn't hire her because she was too old or some prick photographer told her she was too fat.  Beautiful woman like that, doesn't matter how many times she looks into the mirror, all she sees is the rejection.  I guess she hoped the booze would ease the pain and when it didn't she'd look for acceptance in the arms of whatever creep could lay a half-assed line on her first."

            Someone put a dollar's worth of quarters in the jukebox and an upbeat disco tune filled the sour air as ludicrously inappropriate background music to the scene at hand.  "You loved her," Batman guessed.

            "Wha?  That's ridiculous.  I…" Chance sputtered for a few moments, and then calmed.  He set the glass down on the bar, reaching for a bottle from beneath the counter.  He paused before pouring.  "Sure I can't get you something?"  Batman shook his head in silent declination.

            After tossing back the drink, Chance started talking again.  "She'd come in here two, three nights a week.  Most of the time she's dancing and laughing with a group of people, usually with one or two pretty boys panting at her feet.  But once in a while she'd just sit there," he nodded to a barstool, "and talk.  Not that she was talking to me as a person.  It was Chancey the Barkeep, that's what we're here for, right?" he smiled bitterly.  "But I got to know a good deal about the person underneath the glitz and glamour, and I'm telling you she really was beautiful, whether or not she believed it."  He sighed.  "As if a class act like her would ever even look at an old war dog like me."  He licked his lips.  "But I'm telling you I'd give anything to get my hands on that bastard."

            Nodding, Batman replied, "So would I.  All I need is a name."

            Frustrated, Chance slammed the glass onto the countertop.  "I've been racking my brain all day! But every time I come close I just flash back to high school English class.  God, I hated that class," he muttered.

            "Just keep trying.  If you come up with anything, contact Police Commissioner Gordon."

            Chance nodded as he plunged the glass back into the soapy water to wash.  "I will Batman.  Thank y…"  When he looked up he was alone.


	5. 5

            _"Welcome to the evening news.  I'm Summer Gleason.  In tonight's top story, officials have confirmed that the body found in an Upper East Side apartment belongs to prima ballerina Sylvie Herschel, lead dancer for the Gotham Conservatory Ballet Troup.  Herschel, who recently received rave reviews for her performance in 'Sleeping Beauty', was found strangled in her home early this morning by a neighbor investigating a barking dog._

_            "The police department is being close-mouthed on details at this time, however it does appear that Herschel's death is connected to the murder of top fashion model Brandy Valentine earlier in the week.  Both women were strangled in their homes during the early morning hours without any signs of forced entry.  An anonymous police source has indicated that handwritten notes, presumably left by the killer, were found near both bodies.  Though we have no information on the content of the notes, the source says that the police are now referring to the killer as 'The Trash Man' internally._

_            "A sketch artist's rendering shown here is believed to be the man in question. It is compiled from several eyewitness accounts of the person Brandy Valentine was last seen with.  If you have any information about this man, or anything else concerning these tragic deaths, please call the Gotham City Police Department's hotline at 555-…"_

            A hand came up and touched the 'mute' button on the TV's remote control.  Onscreen the badly drawn picture of him was left up for several more seconds before the shot cut away to the anchorwoman and her next topical subject.  He wasn't worried about being recognized from the sketch that was so generic it could have been anyone, from the president to the pope.

            "Trash Man," he spoke out loud to no one, tasting the words for weight and content.  "The Trash Man."

            He smiled, pleased.  Though he was not in this for the notoriety, he felt the moniker suited him.  Sanitation work was an honorable profession, necessary in a city this size to keep things neat and clean.  He would accept it, perhaps even start signing his calling cards with it.

            As the silent television screen showed an overly happy weatherman making small talk in front of a stylized map of the city, he placed the remote back onto the coffee table to his right, accidentally scraping the side of his hand against the edge.  The pain shot up his arm and he swore through gritted teeth.  He brought the hand up to see that one of the small wounds making up two mouth-sized crescents had started bleeding again.  "Should have killed her," he muttered, as he wiped away the blood with a handkerchief.  But that wasn't the plan.  That particular morsel had a special purpose.  Maybe after he was finished and his enemy left broken and alone, maybe then he would revisit the little slut and finish what he had started.

            Standing from the shabby armchair that matched perfectly the even shabbier rent-by-the-week hotel room, the newly-dubbed Trash Man walked over to his Shrine, a 3' X 3' card table piled haphazardly with newspaper clippings, pages torn from magazines, and stacks of VHS tape on which he'd recorded hours of gossip shows purporting themselves as 'entertainment news.'  The subject of all the material was the same – Bruce Wayne.

            At the mere thought of the name, his face drew tight and dark, hands clenched in anger.  His eyes sought out the framed photograph hanging on the wall straight ahead.  A professional portrait: a man, a woman, three children – two girls and a boy.  All were smiling.  A happy family.  Happy until _he_ came along and turned her into a whore, an unclean thing to be reviled.

            He looked down to see his left hand on the table, one finger caressing the top-most photograph.  Wayne and the Pixie toasting at the reception following the Conservatory's opening show of some ballet or other.  He liked to think of her as the Pixie.  So small yet muscular in all the right places, face thin but very pretty, and close-cropped blonde hair, kept short for the assortment of wigs she had to don with her costumes.  He had found her very alluring, very malleable and willing during their time together, and while she wasn't nearly as beautiful as the model, she was quite attractive, though in the end he'd discovered she didn't have the brains God gave a tree frog.

            Waiting outside the stage door with a single red rose, several flattering comments, and that smile he'd perfected – the smile he learned by studying his hated enemy – had insured that she was his completely.  A few offhanded comments insinuating that Bruce Wayne had personally recommended he see the show guaranteed entrance into her private domain.  Later, as he was climaxing inside of her, he'd whispered, "You're going to die tonight."  Instead of displaying a proper emotion like fright or disgust, she only giggled.  It wasn't until his hands were squeezing the last of the life out of her that she finally realized the error of her ways in allowing Wayne to defile her and turn her into nothing more than refuse.

            _The Trash Man._  Smiling, he looked up at the map that hung beneath the happy family portrait, dotted with dozens of colored tacks and pen marks.  He'd made it his mission to clean up the trash of Gotham, and thanks to Bruce Wayne, he had his work cut out for him.

            "Master Bruce?" Alfred inquired quietly as the boy he'd raised to manhood stared vacantly out the window at the waning afternoon light.

            "Yes?" the distant reply came.

            "Mr. Fox is on the telephone.  You haven't been into the office in almost a week.  He's wondering when to expect you so they can reschedule the board meeting."

            Bruce closed his eyes.  "Tell Lucius I'll be out indefinitely.  He can manage just fine without me."

            "Very good, Sir."  He paused in the doorway.  The newspaper was laid out on the desk in front of Bruce with the headline announcing the death of Sylvie Herschel and an accompanying publicity photo.  "I'm very saddened to hear about Miss Herschel's death.  She was very talented."

            Bruce nodded absently.  "I don't think I ever saw one of her performances through completely.  I was usually sneaking out before the first act was completed."  He pushed away from the desk and stood.  "I'll be going out, Alfred."

            "Very good, Sir."

            Batman slipped under the yellow 'Police Line, Do Not Cross' tape and entered the apartment recently vacated by Sylvie Herschel.  The door opened into a small kitchen/dining area.  On the table was a pair of chopsticks still bound by a thin piece of paper imprinted with the restaurant's logo, several soy sauce packets, and a fortune cookie yet to be broken.  They had stopped for take-out Chinese before coming here.  He already knew what she would have had: vegetarian lo mein.  It's what she always ordered.  According to the police report the killer had had General Tso's Chicken.  Both containers were removed by forensics for study.  Two small ceramic bowls on the floor in the corner lay empty and untouched.  Her small poodle, Barishnikov, had been removed by Animal Control already.

             Beyond the kitchen, the rest of the apartment was made up of one enormous room, dominated by an entire wall covered in mirrors with a practice bar in front of it.  He paused as his mind drifted back, sitting in one of her over-stuffed chairs one afternoon and watching her stretch and bend and turn, every graceful movement full of life and emotion.

            Moving on he saw the residual fingerprint dust everywhere.  But there would be no prints, just like at Brandy's apartment.  He was good, this killer.  He didn't touch much, and what he did he cleaned up afterwards meticulously.  Even the body, which could retain fingerprints.  He was good, he was careful.  He'd been planning this for some time, waiting for just the right moment to unleash this fantasy revenge scheme, whatever that revenge may be for.  All this devastating anger fixated on one man, lashing out on those he'd loved.

            _Loved?_ Batman pondered as he cased the large room, looking at books, CDs, photographs.  This had nothing to do with love.  The killer was preoccupied with sex, whether real or imagined.  That was the key.

            Circumnavigating the entire room, he came to the far back corner where a pair of colorful oriental screens standing perpendicular to the walls blocked off the 'bedroom'.  Within the delicate silk screens an entirely different universe was contained with fans and pictures of Chinese symbols or art adorned the walls, a red and gold oriental carpet covered the floor, and a small bonsai tree stood next to the bed, a low futon with red sheets.  A small rock fountain gurgled on a table with several bronze figurines surrounding it.  Though he'd never actually entered this part of the apartment before, he was aware of her belief in feng shui.  To her it was just another way of centering her spirit and body to become the best dancer possible.

            The top sheet had been pulled back and white tape outlined on the bed where her body had lain when it was discovered.  He walked over and crouched down, placing the tips of his fingers very gently in the center.  "I'm sorry," he breathed, remembering her quick laughter, the eagerness in which she sought out the humor in everything.  To call Sylvie an optimist was to call Galileo a stargazer.  While her lightheartedness was infectious, her obsession with dancing could almost be said to rival his own dark drives.  Her talent seemed boundless, but her attention was never held by anything else for very long, and that included him.  The dancing flower child and the millionaire playboy had made for great publicity, but no sparks.  They'd gone their separate ways with little more than a handshake, but no animosity, only a few days after he'd met her at the Conservatory reception over a year ago.

            Opening the drawer to her bedside table, found a romance novel and a diary.  There was only a moment's hesitation before he pulled the diary out and flipped through until he caught sight of his own name.

            …_Been seeing Bruce for a couple of days now.  He's really not the letch everyone makes him out to be.  Polite and generous, if a little loopy, but sometimes he's just so distant, like he's listening to something else, or waiting for something.  And I don't even know if I can bring myself to say it, but he's actually a bit of a bore.  I mean I don't think I could listen to another golf anecdote.  Really don't think this is going to work out.  I thought he'd be the one, but I was wrong.  I know my prince is out there somewhere, a man who will kiss my hand, whisper words of poetry, sweep me off my feet.  Then I won't have to come home alone anymore.  It's a silly fantasy, but it's mine…_

            He plucked a long-stemmed red rose from a water glass standing on top of the table.  Some rookie cop probably mistook it as another part of the room's decor, but he thought differently.  "Was this how he did it?" he asked flower.  "Did he sweep you off your feet with a rose and too much charm?"  He sniffed at it idly.  "Did he know how lonely you were?"  Something else occurred to him.  "Did he mention my name?"  That thought rang true.  The psychopath had somehow fixated on him, so it would make sense that he would feel a personal connection.  He would probably claim to be a close friend, maybe even believing it.

            Batman turned his head slightly towards the far table where the mini waterfall sat, catching something out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked directly at it he didn't see anything out of the ordinary.  Turning back slowly he finally picked up what his mind had been seeing – a flash of white peeking out from beneath the table.  Still crouching he moved over and slid his hand underneath to pull it out.  A crumpled program of the evening's performance.  Not Sylvie's.  She kept them in a scrapbook in pristine condition.  Scowling he flipped through the leaflet until he found notes scrawled in a now-familiar handwriting on the center page: _Pixie's got a great body.   Can't wait to find out how far she's willing to go.  Hope she fights._

            He growled and resisted the urge to mash it into a ball.


	6. 6

            Detective Penway entered Gordon's office without knocking and tossed a folder on his desk.  "Got another one."  Jim raised an eyebrow and opened the file almost fearfully.  "Body'd been cold for over 36 hours by the time it was found.  Doesn't look like anyone was too interested in her well-being.  Name's Aleecia St. Germaine, born Alice George, part-time singer, full-time cokehead.  Her most well known hit is 'How I slept with the record exec to get a contract'," he quipped maliciously.

            "Is that so?" a voice born of nightmares asked from behind.

            Penway jumped as the cloaked figure immerged almost as if from the woodwork.  "Jeez!" he exclaimed.  "Can't you tell him not to do that?"

            "He's not so good at taking orders," Jim commented as he flipped through the papers.  "Got a note?" he asked with a sick dread in his stomach.

            "Yep."  Penway pulled the plastic bag out of his coat pocket and tossed it in front of his boss.

            Adjusting his glasses, Jim focused on the note card.  As with all the others, it was gray and of fairly heavy stock.  Nice, but available at any stationery store in the city.  "_Once poor white trash, always poor white trash.  I probably did Brucie a favor by shutting her up.  Either way it was a mercy killing.  The Trash Man,_'" he read out loud.  "Great, thanks to the media he's got himself a name," Gordon sighed wearily.

            "The note wasn't found right off, which is why we're late getting on it," Penway informed him.

            "Any idea how he approached her?" Batman asked.

            Penway shot the vigilante an annoyed look.  "Drugs.  Found a half-gram still lying on her kitchen table.  He made sure she was nice and happy first."

            "Any evidence he was using?" Jim asked.

            "He wouldn't," Batman cut in.  "This is all very precise.  How he chooses them, how he's hurting them.  Drugs aren't in the plan."

            "Riiiight and thank you, Dr. Freud," Penway replied sardonically.  "But no, Commissioner, no evidence that anyone else was partaking of the goodies.  And if I may point out, we don't know _how_ he's choosing them."

            Jim nodded sadly.  Over fifty women on Wayne's list.  They couldn't put them all under protective custody.

            "What does he mean by 'shutting her up'?" he asked.

            "Word is she's shopping around to write a tell-all book about the music biz.  No doubt there'd be a chapter devoted to her tryst with the illustrious Mr. Wayne," he noted dryly.  "Consensus is that she couldn't write a postcard though."  He smiled.  "Maybe Wayne knocked her off to keep her quiet.  Hell, maybe he did all of them just to clean up after himself."

            "Ridiculous," Gordon growled.  "You know he couldn't possibly have attacked Rebecca Raven."

            "So he copied the first crime.  Why go from rape to murder anyway?"

            Jim looked up at the other man sternly.  "All the notes have been analyzed.  Same handwriting, same perpetrator."

            "I'm just saying to write him off so easily is…"

            "Enough!" Jim shouted and stood up.  "No more of that here or anywhere.  Stick to the facts and follow the evidence trail."

            Penway scoffed.  "What evidence trail?  The scene was just as clean as the others.  He's playing with us, Commissioner, and I don't like it one bit."

            Jim looked down at the picture of the newest victim.  Bright red hair spiked out into dangerous looking points, ring through her nose, black lipstick, and a sadness in her eyes of a young woman whose choices have led her to a dead-end in life.  "Neither do I."

            After slipping away from the two policemen, Batman perched atop a building to think.  The latest death only served to prove the theory he'd been postulating to Gordon before the detective had barged in.  The killer was using their weaknesses against them - vanity, loneliness, vice.  He was studying them.  It may not serve to useful in tracking him down, but it helped to get inside his mind, maybe to allow Batman to counter his efforts like blocking the blow of a fighting opponent.

            He recalled all he knew of the young singer.  In investigating a piracy ring located in the very heart of the record label, he'd needed an excuse to get into the building among the executives.  A party celebrating the release of Aleecia's album was the ideal opportunity and what better way to do it than on the arm of the singer herself.  Unbeknownst to her, she'd been the perfect mole, offering up all kinds of information during her constant drug-induced high, and to her he was simply another rich man to sponge off of.  He'd deftly avoided providing the actual drugs for her, but she managed to score quite well for herself despite his efforts.  The last time he'd laid eyes on her she was passed out on a couch in some office.

            It was only one very publicized event, but it had the gossipmongers talking for weeks.

            One night, he thought darkly.  If he hadn't used her, she would still be alive.  In one night she'd become another of the Trash Man's victims.

            The penthouse was easy enough to access for someone who had both the means and the will.  That worried him as he stood watching her sleep in the dark of her bedroom, night vision lenses allowing a full, unencumbered view.  He would have left as silently as he came, but she had slept only fitfully since returning home and her eyelids fluttered open under his scrutiny.

            Her hand found the bedside lamp and clicked it on.  Only the slightest look of surprise washed over her pretty face as she focused on his motionless figure.  "So the Boogie Man returns," she whispered, sitting up against the padded headboard.

            Not really knowing what else to do, he moved over to the bed and sat down beside her.  Her auburn hair, which he had only seen perfectly coifed until recently, was matted against her head from sleep, strands hanging limp in front of her face.  He reached out and moved them gently away to the side.  She didn't so much as flinch at his touch.  "There's been a third death," he heard himself say.

            She inhaled sharply.  "You're sure it's the same man?"  He nodded.  "Why is he doing this?" she asked with a cracked voice.

            "I wish I knew."  Her lip quivered slightly and a tear slipped down her cheek.  "I want you to be very careful," he told her.

            "What do you mean?"

            "Don't leave here alone, don't let anyone in you aren't completely familiar with."

            She laughed humorlessly.  "I haven't left the apartment since coming home and I'm sure if I did, Dad would have an armed guard follow me around.  And no one's getting in here.  Except of course a mysterious stranger who waltzes in like he has an open invitation," she finished with a small nod towards him.  "Why the house call anyway?" she asked.

            His stomach flipped over.  It was on the tip of his tongue to say, _Because you haven't called me and I wanted to see how you were doing_, but instead he stood up.  "Just be careful."

            Too his amazement, she threw off the bed covers and stood as well, facing him.  Her hand came up and she touched his chest plate with her fingertips lightly grazing the symbol that was his name's sake.  "Sometimes I don't feel like myself anymore," she spoke out loud, though he wasn't entirely sure he was speaking to him.  She rocked unsteadily on her feet, and then leaned forward, like she was going to kiss him.  His hands grasped her upper arms and held her fast.

            "You are Rebecca Simone DeLand Raven, and you're going to survive this."

            "You're certain about that?"

            "Trust me."

            Up close he could see how bloodshot her eyes were and the spider web of scars that remained on her cheeks.  Her lips stretched into a thin smile.  "I bet you help little old ladies across the street and rescue kittens from trees in your off time."

            "Who said I had off time?"

            "All work and no play makes…Batman a dull boy," she said, words slurring slightly.  A quick glance to the bedside table and he saw the empty tumbler that, from the smell emanating from her, once contained a healthy dose of scotch.

            "Dull has its advantages," he said as he gently pushed her to sit down on the bed.

            "I don't want to be alone right now," she moaned thickly.  "Couldn't you just…?"  Her hand reached for him again even as her eyelids drooped.

            "Shhh."  He pushed the hand away, and then, while gently smoothing her hair back from either side of her face, kissed her forehead.  "Go to sleep, Becky.  It will be better in the morning."  

            Her eyes were already closed as she laid her head against the pillow.  "Bruce," she whimpered softly.  "I miss you."

            "I miss you too," he found himself responding while he pulled the spread up over her shoulders.  "Stay safe."  He remained by her side for several minutes to insure she had drifted off to sleep before turning out the light and slipping away with a much heavier heart than he had entered with.


	7. 7

Nightwing perched quietly across from the old brownstone building, watching the police scurry around like blind mice.Only moments before had he seen Batman descend and enter the building under the noses of a dozen of Gotham's finest.

He sensed the newcomer behind him, but remained unalarmed as Robin took up the watch next to him.

"Word travels fast," he commented to the newest Boy Wonder.

"Whose patrol was she on?" Tim asked.

"Cass's," Dick responded and nodded in the direction of the rooftop immediately next to the building in question.Amidst the shadows a deeper shadow stood stock-still and watched the proceedings as well.

"She's going to beat herself up about it."

"She shouldn't.We can't be everywhere at once.If we can't anticipate his moves, then it's really all about odds."

"Like you wouldn't if she'd been yours to watch?" Robin asked.They had all taken Bruce's list of women and split them up into patrols in the hopes of staying the Trash Man's hand.Batgirl had only been two blocks away when the call hit the police band.

Nightwing just shook his head."Batman's inside," he mentioned.

Robin crossed his arms."He must be stretched pretty thin by now.Alfred says he's not eating, not sleeping.I can barely get two words out of him when I see him, and usually all they are is 'Go patrol.'He's taking this way too personally."

Nightwing looked sideways at his young ally."Women are dying and his name is connected to each one.I think that's pretty personal."

"You know what I mean.It's like he believes he's the cause."

"Isn't he?"

Robin stepped back."What's that supposed to mean?He's not killing them, he's not making that sick fuck kill them," he replied indignantly.

Shaking his head Nightwing said, "He didn't have to keep it up the way he did.He was so intent on making this polar opposite personality – oversexed playboy – that he forgot these are actual people he's dealing with, not props in a play."

"C'mon, it can't be that bad.Besides I've seen a lot of the women he goes around with, bunch of gold diggers and thrill seekers.Met a few myself," he muttered, recalling some of the girls that had already started approaching him, seeing only the Drake money and not Tim.

"Yeah," Dick agreed with a shrug."There were plenty of those alright, but there were some really nice ladies, too.Women who thought they actually had a future.They'd get attached and he'd blow them off with a, 'Sayonara babe, it's been fun.'"He dropped his head."I actually had one come up to me and say she'd kill herself if he wouldn't take her back.I was about fifteen at the time.I didn't know what to say to her."

"You're pulling my leg."

"No.People see him a certain way, because that's the way he wants to be seen – shallow, carefree, selfish.Someone just bought into too much and has decided to do something about it.That's all I'm trying to say."

Robin looked pensively."What about Rebecca?" he asked quietly."He's been with her for, what, 2 months?"

"Same old shit.He told Barb he was about to break it off with her the night she was attacked.I guess we'll just have to wait and see.He's going to be screwed no matter what he does now."

Batman entered the ground floor entrance to the old building.Two doors stood to the right and left: apartments.Straight ahead, stairs led to the upper floors made up almost entirely of an art studio with comfortable living quarters.As owner of the building, Nancy Palmateri had been able to renovate it to suit her needs, leaving the extra space below for tenants.

Entering the loft studio, he paused to look around.Cops everywhere, no sign of Gordon, but Penway saw him instantly and with a look of almost pure revulsion, waved him over."What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I heard the call on the police band.Happened to be in the neighborhood," Batman lied.

"You are aware that the police band is for _police_?Whatever.I don't know why, but Gordon thinks you walk on water.Come on in."

"Where is the commissioner?"

"Dealing with the mayor and other politicos downtown.They're not sure how much longer they can keep the lid on Wayne's involvement in all of this.God knows the panic it's going to cause once it gets out."

Batman looked around and saw chaos.Furniture overturned, paint spilled, glass shattered, books flung aside open to pages no one was going to read."How did he get in?"

Penway led him to the kitchen area.On the table was a thin square box with a grinning cartoon chef on the cover.With a pencil, Penway raised the lid.A pizza – pepperoni and green pepper – sat inside, completely untouched."A call came in earlier today.Delivery guy was attacked at a stop and his car was stolen.His hat, too."Batman nodded as Penway continued."So she ordered a pizza and it arrived.But," he paused dramatically, waving his arm in a sweeping motion indicating the obvious signs of struggle."I don't think she had a chance to enjoy it."He moved on to what would be considered the living room.A couch, a couple of chairs, an entertainment system with a fifty-CD-changer, which no one had bothered to turn off.Elton John was proclaiming the bitch was back over the surround sound speakers.On the floor an unidentifiable mound covered with a white sheet."Neighbors were gone when it happened, but when they returned home they noticed the door to her loft was open and came to investigate.We've only missed him by an hour, two at most.

Penway squatted down next to the mound and wordlessly lifted the corner.She was on her back, shirt still on but ripped down the front, naked from the waist down.Her long brown hair was spread around her head, matted in pools of blood.Her face was cut and bruised almost beyond recognition.The detective cleared his throat."Severe head injuries.He smashed it against the floor to subdue her.Chances are slim she would have survived even if he didn't bother strangling her."His voice was somber, almost respectful, a vast difference from the flippancy he had shown towards Aleecia's demise.

"So she was unconscious when he raped her," Batman noted.

"Probably."Penway cut his eyes away for a moment."He really hates it when they fight, doesn't he?"

"No, he likes it."The detective eyed him questioningly."The others were just business.This is what he really enjoys."

"Then why not do it all the time?"

"Too messy, too much risk at being caught.Plus there's a loss of control.He isn't just doing this for pleasure, he has an agenda and he wants to reach the end of it."

"So if he could have gotten to her another way, like he did the others…?"

"Yes.But he would have never been able to get to her, not like that," Batman replied cryptically and turned away.Artwork was everywhere, finished and unfinished.It hung on the walls and was stacked on the floors.If she wasn't completely happy with a painting she quickly gave it up and started on something new.She had more works in progress than finished, but when she did finally complete a project it was beyond incredible.

After seeing examples of her talent at a art gallery reception, Bruce had decided that the Wayne Tower's lobby was in desperate need of a new mural.After managing to get a lunch meeting with her, he had been so intent on getting her to agree to his proposal, he had laid on the charm extra thick.It was during the salad course when she'd set down her fork, crossed her arms, and said, "Mr. Wayne, let me stop you before you hurt yourself.I'm gay."

Bruce had actually laughed as he realized how his eagerness had translated."My apologies.Though contrary to popular belief, I'm not out to get every woman into bed."

She smiled."Good.Now let's discuss my fee."It had been a completely refreshing afternoon.Not only had she agreed to do the mural, Bruce had discovered an amazingly charming and intelligent woman with a Masters degree in art history and a Bachelors in sociology who could debate the socks off any politician.Once the mural had been completed, he was so impressed he had taken her to dinner at Gotham's finest restaurant to show his gratitude.

He returned to the present as he heard Penway say, "He didn't even bother with the card this time."The killer had taken one of her thin paintbrushes and on the floor next to her body, written in her own blood was, _How's this for a masterpiece?But in the end art is only garbage, whether it's hanging on museum walls or lying on the floor.Bruce Wayne knows all about this.The Trash Man._


	8. 8

            Anchorman:  "Good morning Gotham.  We are interrupting your regularly scheduled programming for a news bulletin.  The body count rises as a fifth victim in the 'Trash Man' murders has been found."

            Archival video footage runs showing a stunning blonde in a tiara and silk sash walking down a runway with a bouquet of roses in her arms.  She is waving and smiling while tears stream down her face.

            Anchorman:  "Identified as beauty queen Erin Cartwright, the former Miss Gotham was discovered in the early hours by a friend.  Cartwright was second runner up in the Miss America pageant two years ago and is the fifth victim of the still-unknown murderer.

            "We take you now live to Summer Gleeson, outside One Police Plaza for some breaking news.  Summer?"

            Gleeson:  "Thank you, John.  We're awaiting the arrival of Police Commissioner James Gordon who is about to make a statement concerning the rumors surrounding the deaths of five Gotham women, and will hopefully address the revelation that all women were at one time or another linked romantically with millionaire Bruce Wayne.  The last body found just this morning, has been identified as twenty-five-year-old Erin Cartwright, who dated Wayne shortly after winning her Miss Gotham crown.  Prior victims include Nancy Palmateri, a renowned artist living in Soho, singer Aleecia St. Germain, ballet dancer Sylvie Herschel, and model Brandy Valentine.  My police source has also indicated that there is also a possible, unidentified sixth victim who survived the killer's attack, but this has as of yet remained unconfirmed.  Commissioner Gordon is coming out now…"

            A crowd of eager and anxious reporters surge towards the podium as the gray-haired policeman steps up to the microphone.

            Reporter 1:  "Commissioner!  Is it true?  Are all of these women connected to Bruce Wayne?"

            Gordon:  "Yes.  All victims so far have had a past history with Mr. Wayne.  However we can not assume that that is the sole motivating factor."

            Reporter 2:  "Is Wayne a suspect?"

            Gordon:  "Absolutely not.  Mr. Wayne has provided more than adequate alibis for all the crimes.  He has been very cooperative in our investigation."

            Reporter 3:  "Could he have hired someone to kill them?"

            Gordon shakes his head emphatically.  "Absolutely not.  These are crimes of hate and passion, the result of an unbalanced mind."

            Reporter 2:  "Is there any pattern in how the victims are chosen?"

            Gordon:  "None that we can discern.  The attacks seem completely random."

            Reporter 1:  "What precautions are you taking now to insure no one else gets hurt?"

            Gordon:  "Mr. Wayne has generously provided us with a list of possible victims.  We have increased patrols and enlisted the help of several Neighborhood Watch programs in the areas where they reside.  We have also advised these women to take extreme caution with strangers and to notify us if they see anything out of the ordinary.  This goes for all citizens of Gotham.  Report any unusual behavior to the police."

            Reporter 3:  "What about the vigilante contingent?"

            Gordon:  "I don't understand what you mean?"

            Reporter 3:  "Batman and his cohorts.  Are they assisting?"

            Gordon:  "It is not the policy of the police department to cooperate with those working outside the law.  Next question."

            Reporter 2:  "Are you any closer to identifying the so-called 'Trash Man'?"

            Gordon:  "I can't comment on an ongoing investigation.  Next."

            Gleeson:  "Commissioner!  Is it true there is a sixth victim, one who survived?  And if so, can she identify the killer?  Is that why she's been kept secret?"

            Gordon:  "That's three questions, Summer, and the answer to all of them is no comment."

            Gleeson:  "But Commissioner…!"

            Gordon:  "This press conference is now concluded.  Thank you for your time."

            Lucas Raven shut off the television.  At the other end of the couch his wife sobbed lightly.  In between them sat Rebecca, feeling like a lightening bolt and gone right through her.  She got up and walked to the large picture window, leaning her head against the cool glass.

            Her father came up beside her and laid a large hand on her shoulder.  "I'm sorry about all of this, pumpkin," he said tenderly.

            She let out a haggard breath.  "Why didn't he kill me?  Why would he hurt me like that and leave me alive?"

            "I don't know, but I'm incredibly grateful he did," her father assured her.

            "Sometimes I'm not."

            "I don't want to hear talk like that, young lady."  Despite the harshness of the words, Rebecca was soothed.  She turned into the comfort of his arms and allowed herself at least the illusion of paternal protection.

            "I've been thinking about calling Bruce," she said against his chest.  She could feel the heave of his sigh.  "This must be hard on him too."

            "I'm sure he's surviving just fine.  But I'll support any decision you make."

            Barbara Gordon grimly hit the button on her remote control.  She looked up at the young man standing next to her.  "Well it's finally out."

            "We knew it couldn't be kept a secret indefinitely," he replied.

            "He's going to be a pariah now."

            "Somehow I doubt he'll suffer that much," Dick replied dryly.

            "How can you be so glib at a time like this?" she asked crossly.

            "Because he brought it on himself."  She raised an eyebrow at him.  "Look, I want to stop this guy as much as you do, but I don't find the loss of Bruce Wayne's social life to be a huge tragedy in the grand scheme of things, okay?"  She harrumphed and rolled across the floor of the living room.  "As much as I'd like to continue with this stimulating debate, I've got to run.  Some things I need to get done at home, maybe catch a few z's, then I'll be back tonight for patrol."

            "Fine.  Oh by the way," she called to him.  "I wanted to thank you for the flowers."

            "Flowers?" he asked, confused.

            "Sure, they came yesterday, anonymously.  I don't know how I could possibly have a secret admirer, so I assumed they came from you.  Am I wrong?"

            He grinned broadly.  "Of course not.  Glad you liked them."  He kissed her on the mouth.  "See you later."

            Bruce Wayne walked down the busy street, briefcase in his left hand, looking very much like the rushed, haggard businessman he was.  He didn't like feeling like a rushed, haggard businessman in the least.  Running his father's company had been an honor and a pleasure, which he took extremely seriously considering the vast revenue and jobs it brought into his city.  The prosperous company and its cutting-edge technology development branch provided him limitless resources in his nocturnal hunt for all those that hampered justice or threatened the innocent.  But right now he would rather sell it all for a dollar than to attend the meeting he was heading towards.

            The board of directors wanted to speak with him concerning recent events made public by this morning's press conference, and oh by the way the entire legal department will be in attendance.

            He should have easily anticipated this move if he weren't so preoccupied with other details, like stopping this deranged stalker before half the female population in Gotham was dead and the other half decided to lynch him.

            The backlash had already started.  As the newsbyte spread to the far reaches of the globe more calls were coming in.  He'd finally had Alfred disconnect the manor's main number since the words 'no comment' had lost all meaning.  But it wasn't those calls that bothered him.  It was the calls from the women, crying, wondering if they were going to be next or accusing him of being in league with the killer, many not even convinced he wasn't the killer.

            And now he was on his way to defend himself to a group of old men who had been watching and waiting for him to make that one gross error in judgment as he continued with the playboy routine, looking for just the right opportunity to push him out of the way and gain control for themselves.  This time they might just get it.

            So absorbed was he in his inner conflict that he almost didn't see the man walking directly towards him.

            "Mr. Wayne!" he greeted enthusiastically with an outstretched hand and a wide smile.  

            Assuming a reporter, Bruce ignored the hand and replied with a curt, "Yes?"

            "My name is Dante Russo.  I believe you know my mother, Marisole."  He stood expectantly and reached up to remove a pair of sunglasses revealing dark blue eyes, made all the more stunning by his Mediterranean coloring and jet black hair.

            "I'm afraid not.  The name doesn't ring a bell.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for a meeting."  He tried to walk around, but the young man moved to intercept. 

            "She worked at the Natural History Museum, as an assistant curator," he insisted.

            Bruce thought for a moment.  "I am on the board, I suppose I could have met her.  Is she still there?"

            Eyes narrowing he replied, "No, she gave it up a few years back."

            "In that case, give her my best," Bruce said and started walking away.

            "You know, you're really something of an inspiration for me, Bruce," Dante called after him.

            Bruce paused and looked back, spine tingling with something between dread and insight.  "How so?"

            With a wry grin and a tilt of the head, Dante answered, "How successful you are with women.  You're quite the player."  He dropped a suggestive wink.  "What's your secret?  I mean it can't just be the money, can it?  You really should write a book to let the rest of us mere mortals in on it."  Bruce felt a cold chill despite the warm afternoon.  Dante took a step backwards even as he kept talking.  "But you're off the market now, or so I've heard, with that airline heiress, what's her name?"  He snapped his fingers together.  "Rebecca, right?  Though now she probably won't touch you with a ten-foot pole - or is it the other way around?"  Step.  "Tell me," he said with vague malice as his hand returned the sunglasses to his nose and Bruce saw the healing bite wound.  "What's worse?  Losing that nice piece of ass, or her daddy's company?"

            Bruce growled and the briefcase fell to the sidewalk with a thud, unheeded.  He instinctively reached out to grab the man, but having moved out of arm's reach Dante promptly used the advantage to turn and start sprinting down the block.  Bruce wasted no time in beginning pursuit, roughly shoving aside pedestrians, ignoring their cries of outrage.

            Dante was fast and the business attire was cumbersome, but Bruce began to steadily gain ground, until a woman pushing a stroller cut in front of him, almost tripping him up.  In the split second it took to zigzag around the mother, Dante had disappeared around a corner.

            Following close behind he scanned for the fleeing man, but everyone in sight was walking with the natural hurriedness of a typical Gotham urbanite.  He moved forward quickly, searching faces on the street, in store fronts, in the cars on the street but the man who'd introduced himself as Dante Russo, though he was becoming far better known under another name, had disappeared among the day to day bustle.

            Finally giving up, Bruce stood in the middle of the sidewalk breathing heavily, not from exertion but from mental overload, as he was pushed and shoved, considering what had just happened.  The killer had sought him out, thrown down the gauntlet, taunted him as a cat playing with a mouse.  But what Dante failed to realize was that he was playing with a much more formidable prey – The Bat.


	9. 9

            Five women dead in less than a month.  The killer mocking him on the street in broad daylight, mocking Bruce Wayne, who seemed helpless to the onslaught.    

            But now day had fallen into night and it was time to get to work.

            "Oracle, give me everything on a Dante Russo."

            "Who's that?"

            "Just get me the info now."

            "Give me a minute."

            Bruce got up and started a stretching routine to invigorate his muscles and open his mind.  He'd had to endure the board meeting, even knowing the trail was getting cold, knowing he'd been so close to the man that was trying to ruin him, who hated him, who was killing innocent women in his name.  He had to listen to them tell him how the image looked for the company, how his behavior reflected on its good name.  He had to nod in agreement and all the while he only wanted to be out, out in the city he loved and find this animal, bring him down, stop him.  Priorities, they said.  Where were his priorities?

            Five women dead and more to come unless he put an end to this psychopath's obsession.  

            How was he choosing them?  Not alphabetically.  Not chronologically.  No pattern in location.  It seemed completely random.  He had to anticipate him, be there before he struck next.

            "Here we go," Oracle said.  "Came from a good middle class family.  Two older sisters.  Father, Marco, was head foreman for a top construction company.  Mother, Marisole, worked part-time as an assistant curator at the Gotham Museum of Natural History.  Everything was going great until Marisole disappeared eight years ago.  There was a suspected history of spousal abuse so the police brought Marco in for questioning," she paused.  "He reportedly said that she ran off with a wealthy, powerful man she'd met through her work.  Refused to provide a name because he feared retribution."

            "So she could have run away alone to escape him."

            "Her family didn't think so, not without contacting them or taking the kids.  They're convinced she's dead.  But no body has ever been found."

            "Marco worked in construction.  Easy enough to dispose of a body."

            "Right," Oracle agreed.  "The lead investigator thought so too, unfortunately he couldn't convince a judge, so no warrant was issued.  It was left as a case of abandonment.  As far as Dante goes, he was an excellent student, very smart, genius-level according to some of his teachers.  But, about a year after she vanished, when he's sixteen, he assaults and rapes a fellow classmate.  Was sent to juvenile detention until his eighteenth birthday, when he was released and the records were completely sealed, which is why I couldn't get a hit on that print.  Been clean every since, not so much as a jaywalking ticket."

            "Current whereabouts?  Family?"

            "Whereabouts unknown.  Marco died last year from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.  Both sisters had fled home as soon as they could gather bus fare out of Gotham and haven't been back since, not even for the funeral.  Dante sold the house for cash and hasn't been heard from.  No job, no major purchases, nothing.  He could be hiding anywhere in the city.  Here's a pretty good picture of him."

            There was a _click-whir_ and the computer spit out an 8"X10" photograph taken of Dante Russo before being taken to detention.  Dark hair and skin, deep blue eyes.  An attractive boy that would become the very handsome man he'd met earlier on the street.

            He sat the picture aside and returned his attention to the two lists of names, the victims and the potential victims.  If only he could figure out whom Dante would target next.

            Five women with nothing in common but the ill fortune to have been touched by him.  He knew their looks, the way they sounded, many of the details of their lives, just as he knew the floor plans of the Gotham National Bank or the train schedule, but did he know them as people at all?  They were dying because of him and he'd only utilized them as he would any other element of a disguise, a tool of his trade.

            Five women.

            He frowned.  No, six women.  He added Rebecca's name to the top of the list.  Not dead, but still his first victim.  He pictured each of them in turn.  Rebecca, Brandy, Sylvie…redhead, brunette, blonde.

            His eyebrows closed together as his brain clicked over something, like a car over a speed bump.  He looked at the next three names: Aleecia, Nancy, Erin…redhead, brunette, blonde.

            Such a small, utterly random detail.  Could it be possible Dante was choosing them based upon hair color?  As unlikely as it was, his instinct told him not to ignore the pattern.  Bruce glanced at the master list quickly picking out the known redheads that would be the next targets if the pattern were being followed.  His eyes stopped three-quarters of the way down the page – Barbara Gordon.  His frown deepened as he pondered why he'd added her name.  Then he remembered that there had been several occasions when she had escorted Bruce Wayne before her accident, usually in an undercover capacity or because he simply had no one else.

            Suddenly Oracle's voice interrupted his thoughts by saying, "Be right back.  My pizza's here."  There was a soft click.

            "Wait!  Oracle, come in!" he shouted.  "Oracle, answer me, are you there?"  He stood up and leaned against the console  "Barbara!"  No response, she had turned down the comm to answer the door.  He changed the frequency.  "Nightwing, what's your status?" he barked.

            A bored voice responded, "Watching out for one of your lady loves, where do you think?"

            "Get over to the Clock Tower ASAP!"

            "Why?"

            "I can't reach Barbara and I believe she may be his intended next victim."

            "What?!  You two never dated."

            "We've been seen in public together. Consider the others – all high profile names, the more damaging to my image the better.  What's more high profile than the daughter of the police commissioner?"

            "But, it's not like anyone could just waltz in there.  It's locked up tighter than Fort Knox."

            "Unless she invites him in because she thinks he's a pizza delivery man," Bruce gritted impatiently.

            "Damn!" Nightwing swore softly and then cried in horror, "The flowers!"  Without wasting time on the pleasantries of a proper sign-off, the younger vigilante was gone.

            Bruce dressed in record breaking time, and defied the laws of physics as he gunned the Batmobile towards Gotham, all the while keeping the mantra in his head, "Stay with me Barbara, I know you can do it, just hold out for a little while longer."


	10. 10

            Barbara opened the door and quickly moved off to grab her handbag.  "Just set the pizza over there," she instructed the man holding the square white box, indicating the dining table where a large bouquet of flowers stood predominantly in the center.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him walk past to the table as she'd indicated.  Digging around the bag she muttered, "I know I had a twenty in here somewhere.  Hold on a second."

            "No hurry," the soft voice, rich and sweet, replied.  "I see you received the flowers I sent."

            "Oh here it is…what did you say?"  She looked up.  He was smiling at her as he reached up and removed the baseball cap, revealing the thick dark hair.

            Slowly, never taking his eyes off her, he walked back over and closed the door.  "You know, Barbara, you don't get out nearly as often as you should.  You shouldn't let your disability hold you back."

            "I don't," she replied weakly.  "What do you want?"

            "Simply to get to know you better."  He smiled and moved closer to her.  She grabbed the wheels of her chair and pushed back, rolling away from him.  "Now, now, none of that please," he said pleasantly and reached out to grab her left arm.  "We're just going to have a little chat."

            Surreptitiously her right hand slipped underneath the chair, fingers searching, edging closer until she touched the stick.  "Why are you doing this?"

            He knelt down beside her.  "You seem like a nice woman.  Too bad your taste in men means you're a whore."  Barbara flinched.  "You actually remind me a lot of my mother.  She was very intellectual, but that didn't stop the filthy slut from selling herself to Wayne."  He tilted his head in inquiry.  "Was it the money for you?  I'm just curious, because he doesn't seem to be the most stimulating conversationalist.  And I know his bedroom skills must be lacking.  So what else is there to keep a girl interested?"

            Barbara tried to work some saliva into her bone-dry mouth.  "It was never like that between us."

            He chuckled.  "Sure.  That's what they all said.  They flaunt themselves with him for as long as it suits him and then they plead complete innocence.  And they say money can't buy happiness."  He laughed at his joke as he started to pull her towards the bedroom.

            "No!" she cried and brought the escrima stick out from under the chair, swinging in a wide arc to connect against the side of his head.

            "Argh!" he groaned and went down.

            Gripping both wheels, she propelled herself forward, but he wasn't down for long.  Jumping up and lunging for her, Dante grasped a handful of her hair and yanked back forcefully.  The shift in weight and momentum caused the entire chair to tip backwards and she felt the frightening sensation of falling.  The floor that came up to meet her was hard and unyielding, and her head bounced painfully once.  Taking advantage of her dazed state, Dante kicked the chair out from under her, skidding to a stop at the doorway to her bedroom well out of reach.

            "If you wanted to do it on the floor, all you had to do was ask," he mocked cruelly as he knelt down over her.

            Her head cleared quickly and as he bent his face closer she raised a fist and slammed it into his nose in three quick, sharp jabs.

            His head snapped back, blood flowing freely.  With an annoyed look, he wiped the blood away, leaving a crimson streak.  "I like you redheads, you're all feisty," he said grinning evilly.  "That's going to make it all the more enjoyable when I break you tonight," he sneered.

            "You don't have to do this," she tried switching to reason, wishing deep down her legs still worked so she could buck him off.  Pinned down like this, she was as close to helpless as she could possibly be.  "I'm not your mother."

            The slap came fast and furious, leaving her ear ringing and her face on fire.  "You don't know anything!" she spat at her.  "You sold yourself to the highest bidder and turned yourself into a whore.  You disgust me!"

            From the corner of her eye she had spotted the escrima stick lying on the floor only a few feet away where it had dropped after she fell.  Her hand crawled towards it very slowly, fingers searching blindly while she forced herself to look at his face, keeping him occupied and unaware.  "I never slept with him," she cried pathetically, pretending the tear that slipped from her eye was part of the ruse.  Blocking out the horrible images of the other crimes – pictures of Nancy's broken body and Rebecca's first-hand account of his brutality – she concentrated solely on escaping unscathed.  _I survived a bullet from that psychotic clown, I'm not dying at the hands of some freak with a raging Oedipal complex,_ she thought determinedly.

            So close now, her fingertips brushed against the stick when he suddenly backhanded the other cheek viciously, sending jolts throughout her entire body and pushing the stick to roll even farther away, out of her reach.

            "I have to protect the rest of the world from being contaminated by your filthy treachery, you bitch, but for tonight you are all mine!"

            "She has other plans," an angry voice came from behind.  Two gloved hands appeared on Dante's shoulders and heaved him back into a wall.  The black-and-blue costumed figure bore down on him, picking him up and slamming him into the wall a second time.  "You're through!" Nightwing yelled into his face.

            "Not quite," the Trash Man responded, bringing a knee up against the vigilante's ribs with surprising force.  Nightwing coughed and doubled over.  Dante stepped around him and sent a debilitating jab into his kidney, and then brought both hands down hard onto Nightwing's back, forcing him to the floor.  "Over a year spent in Juvenile Detention taught me a thing or two about fighting."  He kicked at the prone body, but Nightwing blocked it and pulled, bringing Dante tumbling down to the floor as well.  As Nightwing began to rise, Dante kicked him squarely in the face, the momentum sending him flying against Barbara's table.  Flowers, pizza, and splintered wood scattered everywhere.

            Barb rolled over onto her stomach and started dragging herself towards her wheelchair.  Dante zoomed in on his prey and stepped in front of her, grabbing her hair and wrenching her head up.  In his other hand a switchblade knife appeared.  "Not exactly the way I like to do things, but you can't be too rigid, right?"  Barb closed her eyes but the cut never came.  The almost inaudible _whoosh_ of a Batarang flying through the air was heard moments before the knife imbedded into her wall.  Both pairs of eyes turned in the direction the projectile came from to see Batman rushing forward, nothing but black cape and glowing eyes, a vengeful demon seeking the most severe retribution.  He hooked a hand under Dante's arm and sent him flying across the room, headfirst through a coffee table, lamp, and magazine rack like a bowling ball knocking down a set of tenpins.  Batman charged after like an angry rhino.  Nightwing picked himself up from the debris and rushed to Barb's side, helping her into the chair.

            Dante started to pull himself up with the help of a nearby armchair, but Batman offered far more assistance, pulling him to his feet and wrenching an arm behind his back.  "This ends tonight!" he shouted furiously.

            "It'll never end as long as I'm alive," Dante replied.  The blood from Barb's hits was joined by several oozing cuts from his face fault into the furniture, leaving him with a grizzly visage.

            "Bruce Wayne had nothing to do with the disappearance of your mother."

            "He did!  My father told me!"

            "Your father lied to you, to cover up her murder.  The murdered he committed."

            "You can't prove that," Dante hissed.

            "I can and I will."

            With his free hand Dante struck out at Batman, hitting him squarely on the jaw.  Letting go of his arm, Batman returned the blow, knocking the young man to the floor.  But he wouldn't give up, kicking the Dark Knight's legs from under him.  Dante leapt on him raining blows down in rapid succession.  Batman brought a foot up and sent Dante flying over his head.  They both stood and faced each other.  Dante threw a wide punch that was blocked easily and Batman followed by powerful blow to the chest, cracking several ribs.  He coughed and staggered backwards, but stayed on his feet.  "I'll kill you," he wheezed.  He rushed forward again. Batman sidestepped and then kicked out, impacting hard on his leg.  The crack of the bone was audible.  Dante groaned and clutched his thigh, hopping on his good leg, and still he wouldn't give in.  Diving forward, he clutched at Batman's throat.  Finally losing his patience, Batman released the pent-up anger and frustration that had been growing since the attack on Rebecca.

            With a growl of pure menace he pushed his hands up in between Dante's arms, breaking his hold. Fists flew steadily, each punch landing precisely, until the other man dropped to the floor, a quivering, sobbing mass, with all the fight finally beaten out of him.  Batman stood over him, panting, not wanting to stop, but unwilling to allow himself to go a step further.

            "Call the police," he said to the two people he knew were watching him.

            He turned.  Barbara, reinstated into her chair, rolled off quickly to place the call.  Nightwing stood silently, simply staring at him, but even the black domino mask could not hide the message behind his eyes – _You did this, you almost got her killed._

            "Contact the others," Batman told him without any emotion.  "Tell them to resume their normal patrols."

A/N:  I just wanted to respond quickly to Josephine, the reviewer who very astutely pointed out that Bruce should have immediately gone to the police.  It could be explained one of two ways:  1.) That under normal circumstances he no doubt would have, but at this point it's become incredibly personal and he's become more obsessed than usual so that his first instinct is to find this person on his own.  Obviously things moved faster than could be anticipated, but he would have contacted the police sooner or later.  2.) It could just be a major plot hole (one of many I'm sure).  Take your pick ;)

Stay tuned for the epilogue!


	11. 11

A/N: I wasn't happy with the original ending; it just didn't fit right. So, here I present the new and improved ending.

* * *

He saw her on the terrace from three buildings away, dressed in elegant white silk pajamas that glowed in the light of the full moon like a ghost. She stood with both hands on the railing, staring off across the Gotham skyline. He swung a line and landed on the terrace floor ten feet to her left with little more than displaced air currents to mark his arrival. Silently he walked towards her, but without even turning she said, "Ah, the Boogie Man pays a visit once again." He came up along side her and took a similar stance, facing outwards with his hands on the rail.

"I just wanted to let you know he was captured tonight."

"Oh?" she said with little emotion. "Who was he? Do they know why he did it?"

"His name is Dante Russo. He believes his mother had an affair with Wayne and abandoned her family eight years ago."

From the corner of his eye he saw her frown. "Did she?"

Batman slowly shook his head. "The police believe Dante's father killed her and made up the story to cover for her disappearance. However Dante never forgot, and has been plotting revenge ever since."

She bowed her head. "I won't ask if he was injured during apprehension. That wouldn't be very ladylike."

Batman allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he said, "At least five broken bones and three missing teeth. Not that you're asking."

"Good," she responded softly. They stood there for some time, not looking at each other or speaking, until she finally mused as much to herself as to him, "I've been wondering a lot why he didn't kill me like the others. He had plenty of opportunity."

"I believe his goal was to humiliate Wayne, personally and professionally. He had heard the rumors of a possible marriage that could lead to a merger of Wayne Enterprises and Raven Airlines. Instead of martyring you to the cause, he wanted you to aide him by publicly rejecting Wayne."

She let out a loud breath. "I guess that's exactly what I've been doing too. Though to be fair I haven't heard from Bruce in weeks either. I don't think he wants anything to do with me anymore."

"You told him not to contact you," Batman said abruptly, regretting immediately the impulsiveness, but she seemed not to pick up on his faux pas.

"Well yes, but you'd think he'd at least make an effort." She sighed and hugged her arms. "Not that it matters. I might as well start practicing my nunnery vows."

"You're not Catholic," he reminded her.

"I know, but I have to have something to fall back on. I'm damaged goods now." There was a bitter humor in her words that brought out his ire.

"You are not damaged goods," he said forcefully, turning to face her.

Turning as well, she replied, "I'm not?"

A gloved hand came up and he gently drew the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "He could never damage the real you. Don't start down that road, you'll never find your way back." The hand fell away and he pivoted around, walking to the end of the terrace without another comment.

"I'm never going to see you again, am I?" she called after him.

"I'll be around, watching in case you ever need anything."

"What if I need this?" she pleaded.

"Call your boyfriend, that's what he's for." Then with the soft _pop-swish_ of the grappling gun, he shot a line and launched himself into the air.

* * *

"Dante Russo!" the harsh voice of the guard called. He opened his one good eye to look up. The other was swollen shut, accompanied by a myriad of cuts and bruises on his face. His right arm was in a sling from the dislocation and his left leg was in a full cast. Tight bandages wound around his chest to keep his fractured ribs secure, making it an effort just to breath. The pain surged through him unrelentingly. The prison medical staff was approved to administer a minimal amount of medication to relieve the suffering, but it was never enough.

Without waiting for his reply, the guard signaled to a nurse for a wheelchair and then looked back at him with barely concealed contempt. "You have some visitors."

"I'm not really up to company," he tried to say, though his split lips moved hardly at all.

"Not really your decision."

With the nurse's help, they loaded him onto the chair and his was rolled from the hospital wing to a visitor's room. A bright overhead light illuminated the table, where a man was seated. Dante recognized him as the detective who'd shown up to arrest him last night, Penway. "Hello Dante," the detective greeted mildly as he was pushed up to the table sideways to accommodate his leg that jutted straight out. The nurse and guard stepped back against the wall in case they were needed. Aside from the blinding cascade of light from above, the rest of the room lay in shadows, yet he could make out a figure waiting in the corner behind Penway. A tingle ran down his spine as this mysterious spectator simply stood there, observing for some unknown reason.

Penway cleared his throat. "Feeling better?" he asked, without much actual concern.

"I'll live, I guess," he choked out. "What do you want?"

"You're in a lot of trouble, you realize that don't you?"

Dante tried to shrug, which only aggravated the injured shoulder.

Penway opened a folder that was on the table in front of him. He pulled out an x-ray and slid it across to Dante. "What do you make of that?"

Dante squinted at it. The x-ray was mostly dark with a white blob in the middle. With a little concentration, he could almost make out the shape of some human bones. He stayed silent.

"That x-ray was taken early this morning of the southwest cornerstone of the TigerCom building. You've heard of the TigerCom building haven't you, Dante?" Penway asked conversationally. The name itched at a memory buried deep in his subconscious, but he pushed it away. "Sure you do. That was the building your dad's company was working on when your mom disappeared, wasn't it?" Dante shuddered involuntarily. The detective's voice kept its low, easy tone as he continued. "As a matter of fact they were pouring the foundation the day after she supposedly ran off." He reached over and tapped at the x-ray in front of Dante. "Know what I think? I think that's your mom. That's where your father dumped her body after he killed her."

"No!" Dante screamed, his ribs burning with fire. He clenched the arms of the chair and squeezed his eyes closed. "She ran away! She abandoned us!"

"He beat her, Dante. Just like all the other times, only this time he didn't stop until after she was dead, isn't that right? He was jealous wasn't he? Often accused her of affairs with men she met through work. I'm guessing around this time Bruce Wayne joined the board. Lots of rumors about Mr. Wayne. Your dad couldn't help himself could he?"

"No! Stop it!" he screamed.

"He killed her and dumped her body and we're going to find out." Penway leaned back and sighed. "Unfortunately this x-ray came from an unauthorized source. Judges don't like evidence that's dropped off by men in capes and cowls. That could be a bit of problem, since without a warrant we can't go digging up private property. And owners typically don't voluntarily allow us to cause millions of dollars in property damage." He smiled. "Luckily for us the TigerCom building has just come under new ownership." His head turned. "Mr. Wayne, what do you think?" he asked to the figure in the shadow.

Taking several steps into the light, the well-dressed corporate head, and much-gossiped-about playboy, entered the light with a steady glare directed at Dante. "Dig it up," he replied firmly.

"No," Dante replied half-heartedly.

"Yes. I'm sorry about your mother, but she was a victim, just like all those women you hurt. It has to stop."

Penway closed his file and stood up. "Unfortunately, this changes nothing. You'll be spending a long time in prison considering what you've done."

Together the detective and the millionaire walked out. Dante was wheeled back to his bed in the infirmary where he lay for a long time thinking of a hundred different ways he could kill Bruce Wayne.

* * *

The call came not unexpectedly, what was unexpected, however, was the bundle of nerves that settled in Bruce's stomach as he waited for an answer to her doorbell. Then she was there, in a pair of lilac pants and matching cashmere sweater. "Bruce," she said happily. "It's really good to see you again. Come in."

He stepped inside and handed her the bouquet of flowers he'd brought, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. Liberal use of makeup had hidden most of the remaining signs of her attack. "You look beautiful," he said sincerely.

"Thank you. Have a seat while I find something to put these in." She disappeared momentarily, only to return with a large cut crystal vase with the flowers arranged perfectly that she set on a low table.

"Where are your parents?" Bruce asked.

"Shopping. I asked them to give us some time alone." She turned to him with a smile and a wink.

"I'm glad. We really need to talk."

"I know, but later. Come on, I've got some lunch put out. Let's eat."

After a light lunch with polite conversation they retired to the living room with cups of rich Italian coffee. "So," Bruce started while she took a sip, "I suppose we should stop pretending this is a normal luncheon date."

Rebecca nodded. "You've heard they caught the Trash Man?"

"Yes. I want you to know that even though I may have met her once or twice at the museum, I was never involved with his mother."

"I believe you, Bruce," she said with a sweet smile. She swallowed hard and looked down. "Father wants me to go to a spa in the south of France to recuperate."

Bruce frowned. "Oh?"

"It's not an order, mind you, but without an incentive to stay, I might just take him up on the offer." She looked up at him from beneath her lashes in a manner that was both docile and aggressive.

"Incentive?" he responded weakly.

She pushed her hair away from her face. "I'm not trying to pressure you in any way, please don't misunderstand me. But I have," she paused and clenched her eyes for a second, "I have loved you since I was fourteen." He kept a mild expression on his face while she continued. "I saw your face on the cover of the _Gotham Times_ when you came back from studying abroad. I even remember the headlines. 'Gotham's Prodigal Son Returns,'" she quoted. "You looked so determined, yet so lost at the same time." She sighed. "I cut the article out and put it in a scrapbook, along with hundreds since then. Even when I was stuck in Geneva, I had papers imported just so I could keep track of you. It sounds silly, but I fell in love with you then, and I'm afraid I still am. I had hoped that maybe you were starting to feel the same way."

She looked so vulnerable, like a flower about to be crushed under his shoe. But he had no choice.

"I don't."

Her face fell dramatically. "You don't?"

"I'm sorry, Rebecca. I'm afraid I've been stringing you along all this time. I can't give you what you need. But I think it's better if you know the truth now. Go to France."

"You can't mean that," she whispered.

"I'm sorry. I just can't change who I really am."

"A heartless pig?" she spat.

"If that's what it takes for you to get over me."

He stood up and straightened his jacket. With a curt nod he turned and walked to the door. As it closed he heard the crash of the flower vase shattering against the other side. Then the sounds of soft sobbing. Head held high, Bruce left the high-rise.

* * *

Two months after he'd put away the serial known as the Trash Can Man, Batman returned home at the crack of dawn from a long night of patrolling. The Penguin had set up a stronghold on the south side, and he's spent most of the time observing the activities before finally wiping out the illicit business completely.

"Long night, Sir?" Alfred asked holding a tray carrying a cup of coffee and looking as fresh as always despite the early hour.

"No longer than usual," he answered grimly.

While he was entering a log of the night's events, the Manor's phone rang. Through the intercom, Alfred said, "It's for you, Master Bruce. Commissioner Gordon."

Frowning, Bruce answered the call, stifling a real yawn. "How can I help you, Commissioner?"

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Wayne. Dante Russo, along with four other inmates, broke out of prison about three hours ago. Several guards were killed or injured in the escape." He sounded tired as well, no doubt roused early due to the incident. "I'm issuing a directive that your house is to be monitored at all times."

"Thank you, Commissioner," Bruce answered hollowly.

Immediately upon disconnecting the call, he dialed Rebecca's number. There was no answer. Then he called the main phone line for the building, which would be answered by the doorman during off-peak hours. He let it ring twenty times before hanging up.

Pulling the cowl back on, he leapt into the Batmobile and headed back out. Twenty-five minutes later he landed on the balcony outside the Ravens' apartment. The French doors stood ajar. He stepped forward and pushed them open fully. What he saw in the room caused his breath to catch in his throat. Blood was everywhere like a Jackson Pollock painting. No wall was spared. Ahead, lying side by side in front of the sofa were the elder Ravens, eyes wide and empty, gaping wounds in their throats and abdomens. To the left was the corpse of the unfortunate doorman, equally mutilated.

A small noise like the squeak of a mouse drew his attention to his right. Dante Russo, naked to the waist and covered with smeared blood, stood in the hall entranceway, having come from one of the bedrooms. He left hand grasped a handful of Rebecca's hair as she kneeled beside him. She wore a tattered dressing gown, also covered in blood. Her face was bruised and swollen, and her eyes held a dazed, defeated look. She held her right arm against her body protectively, possibly due to a fracture.

"Nice of you to drop by, Batman," Dante said grimly. "But I'm sure you weren't invited."

"Let her go," Batman demanded coldly.

"No, I don't think so." He looked down at her with a fond smile. "She's quite a lot of fun once she's been tamed."

Rebecca's eyes rolled in his direction. "Help…me…" she rasped.

At the words, Dante shook her head viciously. "Did I tell you, you could speak?" he snarled at her. She whimpered softly in response.

Beneath his cape, Batman readied a Batarang. "I won't tell you again. Let her go."

Dante looked around as if Batman hadn't spoken. "You know, I do good work. I can't wait to slit Wayne's throat…"

Batman took his shot, aiming for the arm holding Rebecca at the forearm just below the elbow. He prayed she wouldn't flinch. The Batarang found its mark and Dante let her go with a howl of pain. Rebecca sagged sideways having lost his support. Batman lurched forward and grabbed Dante's right arm, flipping him neatly over his hip. Dante landed on the sofa and tumbled ungainly off onto the cooling bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Raven. He pushed himself up angrily, but Batman was already flying towards him. The two men fell into a heap onto the glass table and it shattered beneath them. Dante screamed as glass shards imbedded themselves into his exposed torso.

* * *

The screaming pierced her ears, and Rebecca moaned unconsciously. She started to pull herself towards the balcony just to escape the commotion, but her hand slipped in a pile of blood and she fell hard on her injured arm. Stars burst in front of her arm as the pain bit into her. She lay there for a few moments as the battle waged across the room. In the dark she could barely make out Batman in his black garb, but her assailant was easily visible as the light bounced off the bright blood. Her parents' blood.

Steadily, she began to pull herself along again, slow and carefully. She crossed the balcony's threshold and tried to pull herself up by hooking the railing with her left hand, but there was a loud crash as the doors were destroyed and the combatants flew towards her. She was shoved hard against the rail, feeling a sharp pain in her side, and slid down to cower against the wall while she watched punch after punch. Batman had the other pinned against the railing, landing a barrage of blows like a whirlwind.

Breathing started to become difficult and she began to gasp for air. She felt like she wanted to cough, but couldn't pull enough air in. It felt like a huge weight was pressing against her chest. She lowered her head to the floor as the blackness came, and really what was the point of fighting it?

* * *

She awoke in the hospital, her whole body throbbing with pain. _Not again_, she thought sadly. She had an involuntary urge to swallow, which was hampered by a tube down her throat. It made her want to gag. A rustling sound beside her alerted her to the person sitting next to the bed. She rolled her eyes and say Bruce sitting there, reading a newspaper. She tried to speak, but only managed a weak gurgle. He looked up sharply and their eyes locked. Tossing the paper aside, he stood and pressed a button over her head. He looked down at her and grasped her hand lightly.

"Welcome back," he said quietly. She could only stare in response.

A doctor and several nurses came in and surrounded the bed, pushing him aside. "Hello, Rebecca," the doctor said to her. "We're going to take the tube out; that should make you more comfortable. Now, when I tell you to, I want you to take a deep breath and then blow it out, hard. Okay? Now."

She pulled in as much air as possible and then let it out as he pulled. It made her cough and gag, and she felt her stomach heave.

"There. How do you feel?"

She took a few experimental breaths and then nodded. "What happened?" she croaked, feeling a burning sensation in her throat.

"You had a collapsed lung due to a fractured rib, among other things. But five hours in surgery put you right as rain."

Her right arm was casted up halfway to the shoulder, and it throbbed painfully.

Noticing her attention, the doctor said, "Broken in eight places. We put some pins in. In sixth months or so you should have your backhand up to speed and be racing up and down the tennis courts." He offered her a friendly smile. "Anyway, now you need some rest." He looked pointedly at Bruce. "Five minutes."

Once the medical staff had vacated the room, Bruce stood at her side again. "I want you to know I've taken care of everything. Your apartment will be as good as new."

"Sell it," she rasped.

He nodded and avoided her eyes. "The funeral is the day after tomorrow. Unfortunately, you have to stay for at least another week."

She shook her head quickly and mouthed, _going._

"I'm sorry, Rebecca. You aren't in any condition to get out of bed."

She closed her eyes. He tried to take her hand again, but she pulled it away. Eventually he took the hint and left the room.

Ten days later, she was discharged. Her arm now held a much smaller cast, ending before her elbow, but it was still a chore to dress. After managing the buttons on her blouse she ran a brush through her hair gently; the scalp was still tender to touch. She slipped on a pair of flats and sat down on the bed to make a quick phone call, her hand shaking as she punched in the numbers. The call consisted of one word: "Tonight."

"Do you have someone picking you up?" the nurse asked, as Rebecca hung up the phone next to her bed.

"I'm taking a cab," Rebecca replied cheerfully and picked up her handbag before walking out of the room. Outside, an orderly waited with a wheelchair. "Doctor's orders," he said with a smile. Sitting down in the chair she allowed herself to be pushed into the elevator.

Downstairs the orderly left her at the front door with a salute and well wishes. She hailed the first taxi that came by. "Where to, lady?" the driver demanded.

"Blackgate Prison."

He looked at her strangely in the mirror. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." She fished a fifty-dollar bill out of her bag and slipped it through the slot in the partition.

"Okay," he said gleefully, and pulled away from the curb.

Inside the prison she filled out the necessary forms and submitted her bag for inspection. The guard pulled out several prescription bottles and gave her a questioning look. "I was just released from the hospital. You can call my doctor."

"I'll just keep it here," he said brusquely and then waved her through the metal detector. When no alarm sounded, she continued to the visiting area where she waited for forty-five minutes, flipping through back issues of _Car and Driver_ before her name was called. She was shown into the room that had been bisected by a long table with glass cutting off the two halves. She sat down at the indicated chair and waited yet again.

Five minutes later, Dante Russo was led to the opposite chair. His face mirrored her own with fading bruises and cuts. He gave her an expression of pure confusion as she smiled sweetly at him and picked up the intercom phone. Reluctantly he did the same.

"How are you feeling?" she asked sincerely.

"Lousy. My lawyer's certain I'm getting the gas chamber." His eyes bore down on her, but she continued smiling.

"No. You're not."

"What?"

"You're not going to die in the gas chamber. In fact you don't even have to worry about the trial. You're going to die tonight. At exactly 8:30 pm, your dick will be cut off and shoved down your throat. After you've been violated no less than ten times. Enjoy the next nine hours of your life. I know I will."

The smile never faltered as she replaced the phone and stood up. Behind her he screamed and pounded against the glass.

"Have a delightful day," she told the guard who gave her back her handbag.

"Ah, you too," he said, giving her a half-hearted grin.

Outside she basked in the sunshine, content that money really could buy anything. Her only regret was that she wouldn't be there to see Bruce's face tomorrow when he received Dante Russo's head in a box with her handwritten note, _Wish it was yours._

The End.


End file.
